


Angst and Arrogance

by brightephemera



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 86,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6659299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightephemera/pseuds/brightephemera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The society novel of hearts and challenges never ages, and lots of places have an era of muskets and manners. When Havenvale’s society season is interrupted by a scourge of nightmares from the Fade, it falls to the local gentry to take up arms against the Breach – and learn to rely upon one another. This alt-U Regency Inquisition retelling features Miss Cousland and Mr. Trevelyan amidst the Inquisition cast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Newcomer and His Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This work is complete and will be released on a schedule - no writer's block delays here.

The independent county of Havenvale has many advantages which may be attractive to visitors and particularly to individuals who seek a combination of civilization’s perquisites with a certain quaint air of the wild, lent in this instance by the mountains crowding around and the local gentry’s famed prowess with the sword and musket.

It is perhaps appropriate to begin with a description of said gentry. Chief in stature among them is the Lady Cassandra Pentaghast of Hunter Fell, who can lay direct claim to royalty but has instead dedicated her days to the martial arts in training to support the Chantry and act as guard to the well-regarded Mother Justinia. The next is Madame Vivienne, who is prominent amid the mage Circles of the neighbouring country of Orlais; in fact her estate Ghislain is but one of several properties which, though under royal rule, are accessible to her by dint of her status as court enchanter. Of perhaps lesser status but greater wealth is Lord Pavus, a transplant from distant Tevinter; though an accomplished mage he has little to do with the Chantry Circles, and instead amuses himself with hunting and scholarship at his estate Asariel.

The last long-time resident is the reclusive Miss Cousland of Amaranth, famous for having ended the Blight war with her rumoured paramour Prince Alistair some ten years previous to this description; as the sole surviving Grey Warden of Ferelden, Alistair having died in service, she has some cachet among curious onlookers but has lived as a near hermit, having regular dealings only with her servant Harding. Amaranth was a gift from the queen as what is popularly understood to be a political trade, and with the exception of the occasional Deep Roads expedition with her fellow Wardens Miss Cousland retired from public life very shortly after the end of the war. 

It came to pass one day that Madame Vivienne was visiting with Lady Cassandra, and they had a guest at Hunter Fell, Lady Josephine Montilyet.

“Did you hear that Ostwick is to be let again?” said Lady Cassandra, deftly running needlepoint as she spoke.

Madame Vivienne laughed. “No one stays there for long. I dare say a servant could afford to rent it at asking price.”

“I heard,” said Lady Josephine, “that the young man in question is a fellow of distant family and no fortune. I cannot imagine what he stands to gain by coming to Havenvale.”

“You mean apart from the attentions of some of the most powerful women in the realm?” said Madame Vivienne. “A man who realizes it, and has the self-importance to fancy himself a catch, would be a fool to pass it up.”

Lady Cassandra, who privately believed that this was an unfortunate turn for the conversation to take, for she abhorred the mercenary aspects of matchmaking, shook her head. “That supposes that any of us are available.”

“Of course your careers come first,” said Lady Josephine. “I am similarly not inclined to give chase – or be chased, for that matter.”

“Which, if we discount Lord Pavus, just leaves Miss Cousland, the poor dear,” concluded Madame Vivienne. “I should hope for her sake that our newcomer is of quality.”

“She is not obligated to pay him any attention,” Lady Cassandra said, a little stiffly.

“There are obligations and then there is simple self-interest,” said Madame Vivienne. “It’s quite understandable to have no interest in people who cannot possibly meet your level. And she is, after all, a teyrn’s daughter. But after a certain age one would think one might let go of some of one’s more exacting requirements. It does your house no credit to be two-and-thirty and unmarried, no matter how sterling your standards are.”

Lady Cassandra set aside her needlepoint. “Really, Madame Vivienne,” she said. “Miss Cousland has known enough hardship without having to take darts from me or you.”

Vivienne adjusted her posture ever so slightly, the better to look regal. “Of course you’re right, my dear. I meant nothing by it.”

“But who will the newcomer be?” said Lady Josephine, evidently ready to set the conversation back on track. “The connexions I heard this through didn’t even have a name…”

***

Mr. Turin Trevelyan was in fact a fellow of distant family and no fortune. He was not yet old enough to feel burdened by this, and in fact his intention in coming to Havenvale was to seek the adventure of training with the famed warrior ladies of the county. The thought that they might refuse had not, as of his appearance at Ostwick, crossed his mind.

He had not been in his spacious new house three hours when a servant appeared outside on a finely bred horse to deliver an embossed invitation to the Ghislain estate, to-morrow night. It gave him precious little time to unpack and prepare, but he brought out his best finery with a smile.

He rode the horse he had first ridden into the county on and took it slowly across the wooded countryside. The mountains on all sides were snowy despite the spring of the valley floor. His path took him around the famous stone chapel, situated picturesquely on a rise from where he could see the dark roofs of Ghislain. He noted a closer estate with brown roofs, nearly hidden by the trees to one side; but his path did not take him that way.

Just inside the hedge of Ghislain he slowed. Madame Vivienne was, it was rumored, in possession of some eight thousand crowns. She was unmarried and famously self-sufficient. None of this escaped Turin’s notice, as among the lessons he had taken from his education in the Free Marches was a keen appreciation of economics. He dismounted and let a masked servant take his horse. The Orlesian fashion continued as he walked indoors and heard a strain of strings. A second masked servant escorted him to the large golden hall.

A darkly complected fellow sporting a neat curled moustache turned the moment the servant announced “Mr. Trevelyan of Ostwick.” His eyes seemed to light up and he hurried at once to greet the newcomer.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” the stranger exclaimed, “you’ve sailed in so quickly you’re ahead of the rumours. No one will know what to make of you.” He set a hand on his ruffled breast and bowed. “Lord Dorian Pavus, at your service.”

“Lord Pavus.” Turin bowed as well; Lord Pavus’s fortune was second to none in the county. “I’m honoured. Your family is famous in the Free Marches.”

“For the amount of your wine my father consumes, I should hope so. Come with me, I’ll introduce you.”

So Turin was led to a dark-skinned woman in a horned hat and a woman in an unusual confection of yellow and blue. Lord Pavus was effortlessly glib. “Madame Vivienne, Lady Josephine, this is Turin Trevelyan. Turin, meet Madame Vivienne, court enchanter to the Empress, and Lady Josephine, a guest over at Hunter Fell.”

“Ladies. It’s a pleasure.”

“Mutual, I’m sure,” said the dark-skinned woman, Madame Vivienne, her eyelashes black against golden eyeshadow. “I do hope Ostwick is to your liking.”

“You must let us know if there is anything we can do to help you settle in,” added Lady Josephine.

“You’re very kind to offer. I’ll confess I’ve had very little chance to acquaint myself with the area.”

“Then start here,” Lady Josephine said warmly. “Oh! Here comes Lady Cassandra.”

Lady Cassandra was, Turin happened to know, in possession of the enormous sum of twelve thousand crowns, and was also unmarried. He drew himself up straighter, the better to make a good impression. He bowed nearly to the point of reverence when the beautiful woman with the close-shorn hair and scarred cheek approached. “Lady Cassandra, I presume?”

“You presume correctly,” she said in a delightful accent. “Mr. Trevelyan. I am pleased to welcome you to Havenvale County.”

“It seems most agreeable so far,” he said.

“It shows well in spring,” agreed Lady Josephine. “And it will only get greener over the season.”

“Glad am I to hear it, but I was personally speaking of the company,” said Turin, and was gratified to see a playful smile lend levity to her remarkable dark eyes. He had researched this county well, but of Lady Josephine he knew nothing, except that she had charm.

Lady Cassandra insisted on being the first to dance with the newcomer, a distinction nearly unheard of in the county. She followed him with clean precision, more painstakingly accurate than graceful.

“You are the talk of the town,” she said, maintaining the perfect courteous distance. “One word of advice, don’t let Lord Pavus take you hunting.”

“Why ever not? I flatter myself that I’m a tolerable shot with a musket.” It was, in fact, the demonstration he hoped to make to prove himself to the warriors of Havenvale.

“Your aim will matter little when he starts throwing fireballs,” said Lady Cassandra.

“Ah. I see.”

“Nevertheless, you should find him very sociable.” 

“Do you yourself hunt? I have heard great things of the warriors of the county.”

“Do not believe everything you hear.” She set her jaw in something approaching hostility. “But,” she added, with a little curl of a smile, “we keep in practice.”

“I pray I might have the honour of joining you.”

“Ah, but not today.” She shut her mouth and seemed content to dance in silence the rest of the way. 

Madame Vivienne stepped in next, sweeping Turin back onto the dance floor before he quite knew he had been selected. He lined up with the others, took a bow, and started dancing with his hostess and her tall horned hat.

“It is good to meet you,” she said. “We hear so little from the Free Marches these days.”

“With the troubles afoot I imagine there isn’t much reliable word. I myself come out for…other reasons.”

She turned up her finely molded face. “Really?”

“Er, yes.” It occurred to him for the first time that the ambitions that had sounded so practical at home might not be so kindly received here. But then, a hot iron left unstruck had never done anyone any good. “I had honestly hoped to study the sabre with Miss Cousland. Her skill with it is the stuff of legend, even as far as the Marches.”

Madame Vivienne didn’t laugh, though it was a near thing. “Oh, my dear. Miss Cousland lets no one in. Better ask Lady Cassandra, or else give it up altogether.”

“That I cannot do,” he said stoutly, “so I may well ask Lady Cassandra myself.”

“As you wish. Tell me about the Trevelyans. They don’t have much traffic with the southern lands.”

She listened and asked questions like a cat hunting. Turin, to his own discomfiture, played the mouse. She in turn seemed to be pleased.

Once the song ended the musicians set to rest and Turin found himself beside Lord Pavus. The gentleman gave him a radiant smile. “I would insist on a dance but they always tell me I’m dancing the wrong part,” said he. “Perhaps some other day. Something to drink?”

“Gladly.” Everyone here was so complaisant, so agreeable, Turin found that he had only to accept every invitation sent his way to fill his calendar and make a start at becoming truly part of the neighborhood. Training could wait for a night; for now it was enough to see and be seen.

 

***

The popular opinion of Mr. Trevelyan was a very positive one; his manners pleased everywhere and his skill at dance was pronounced perfectly delightful. His carriage was generally held as distinguished and his aspect amiable. Alas, then, that he should be of such low prospects. No one expected him to host at Ostwick any time soon; further impressions must perforce be formed by socials at one of the other estates. The ladies expressed satisfaction at his first impression, save for a slight tendency toward familiarity, which they attributed to his outgoing nature; notwithstanding they agreed to hold another dance very soon.


	2. A Resident and Her Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Turin witnesses a disaster, receives a startling distinction, and meets another resident of the County.

Turin himself was greatly gratified at his reception at Ghislain; the ladies were gracious, the gentlemen courteous, and the web of friendships sufficiently clear in his mind to give him an idea of where to start at their next meeting. He had every intention of ingratiating himself with this new circle, and he felt he had made a good start.

The way back to Ostwick was cheerless in the dark, but Turin held to the road, having memory good enough at least to keep him on the proper path. It was a relief to see the stone chapel rising against the night sky. A faint glow of candles lit the window at one end of the building. 

He was just passing across the lane when his world turned livid green.

When he came to himself again he was stumbling, upright, sans horse, with hearing slowly returning to his pained ears. He tripped over freshly laid jagged stone, pulled himself to his feet, and stared. The chapel that had stood so cleanly and sturdily before was a scorched ruin. And he could see every broken stone in the sickly green light of a…a tear hovering in the low clouds precisely above where the chapel used to be.

His left hand throbbed. He held it up to behold a nonsensical cipher of a mark on his palm, glowing the same green as the hole in the sky. His first thought was horror; he wiped his hand on his trousers, once and then more forcefully. The mark neither moved nor faded.

There had been candles in the window. That, and the rectory directly adjoined the chapel proper, which meant the revered mother and perhaps others were there. Wiping his hand once more, Turin dashed through ash and heat past oddly luminous red stones into the broken remains of the building. There in a back room near the rectory he found what he had feared: charred bodies, five of them, pushed against the wall and floor. He steadied himself against the doorway and concentrated on suppressing a swell of nausea. He had never seen dead bodies before, and his introduction now on top of the sinister wound above and brand below was altogether too much for one evening.

He stumbled back outside again into the merciless night. He wondered who to go to. Back to Madame Vivienne? It was a long way in the dark without a mount. How had his horse disappeared, exactly? What had marked him? What to do?

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud groan from behind the chapel. At once worried and hopeful, Turin walked quietly around and down a hedge line – only to find, at the end, a smaller green tear, perhaps twice the height of a man, glowing and twisting in the night. Just outside was a red-orange...shape...taller than he, rounded, with vague orange arms. It moved toward him as if swimming in the air, its body flowing along the ground behind.

Gasping now out of panic, Turin drew his ornamental sabre. His musket had vanished with his horse. He took up the pose he had been trained in and stood off as best he could.

The thing heated the air all around it as it drew near, and Turin feared it would actually burn him; so his slashes were particularly quick. The orange substance proved to be flesh after all, and Turin cut it a dozen times while it reared and released another loud groan. Whether it opposed or enjoyed his attentions Turin could not say; he only knew he had to keep its arms away from him.

A musket report echoed from somewhere in the forest. The thing arched backwards, screaming like a wildcat. Another shot. Turin shook himself and set about stabbing the thing while it was distracted. Another. The thing shivered and fell.

Something else climbed over it from the direction of the rift, something tall and spindly. It carried with it a noxious smell. Turin essayed once again the proper sword fighting pose and then lurched into action. He had hardly begun when someone leaped out of the shadows, flashing a cavalry sabre in the sullen green light of the scene. The tall thing screeched and turned, starting a staggering retrograde motion from which Turin had to dodge or be tripped over. The warrior followed the quarry, and before it could flee the warrior leaped to bury the weapon in its head.

Turin felt a tug in his stricken hand. The mark was flaring. Following, he raised it toward the rift and felt for his efforts a prodigious pull. Steadying himself in place, he watched in fascination while a green thread uncurled between mark and rift. Long, breathless seconds later, the rift itself flared, not unlike the mark...and vanished.

When he looked back he saw that the strange fighter was a woman in a dark blue dress. She was busy beheading the spindly monster. She had a face of pleasant feature but haughty arrangement, and her long brown hair was gathered in a braid at the nape of her neck. He did not know what to make of her. Her appearance was surely fortuitous, but her demeanor was nothing short of grim.

She looked at him. “Are you hurt?” she said in a rough alto.

“No, madam. I have you to thank for that.”

“Hm.” She looked around. “What happened to– oh, no.” Just like that she was running, leaping over broken stone to a scene illuminated by a second rift between land and breach. He reached out in a confused effort to stop her, but she was too far gone. He followed her instead, back into the ruins and their sickening centre.

She stood in the ruined doorway, looking from side to side and back again, looking less horrified than angry. Once she took a step forward and moved as if to kneel, then hung back instead.

“I don’t know these others,” she said. “But Mother Justinia must have been one of them.”

Turin stayed silent.

The woman turned back to him. “What did this?” she said in a deadly voice.

“I regret to say that I don’t know,” he said, acutely aware of how suspicious a statement that was. “I was just passing by when it all burst.”

She seemed to study him in the dim green light, longer than he felt safe with. If she decided he was the enemy, how long would he last against her expert swordsmanship? She looked up at the tear in the sky and its smaller copy – or continuation – just above the chapel proper. “We are not safe here,” she concluded. “Come with me.”

He followed while she took a lesser path down from the ruined chapel. She paused to pull out a handkerchief and wipe her blade. “I admit I am at a loss,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Fionne Cousland,” she said shortly.

“The Miss Cousland! The Hero of Ferelden?”

Her shoulders slumped by a degree. “The living one, yes.”

Excitement rose past the rigours of the night. To find the legendary Grey Warden at last – and so soon after his entry to the county – this was his opportunity to meet the famed warrior who had ended the war. “My name is Turin Trevelyan. I’ve just come to the county over in Ostwick.”

“You got an unpleasant welcome,” she said. Again, the studious look. Unable to allay her suspicions, Turin stayed silent. He was delighted to find her, yes. But if she found him guilty he probably could not stop her from meting out punishment. In light of that, discretion demanded his silence wherever possible to avoid giving offense.

His hand still ached. As he stared at it the mark flared luridly green.

Miss Cousland saw it, too. She frowned. An instant later she stepped in, punched his sword arm into numbness, and laid her sabre’s edge at his throat.

“Tell me something and tell it truly,” she said, her voice rougher than ever. “I have fought demons, darkspawn, abominations and blood mages, and I have slain more than my share of each of them.” She leaned closer. “What are you?”

He couldn’t even swallow, much though he wanted to. He kept his eye contact with her, afraid of what she might do if he blinked. “I’m just a person,” he said at last. “And I don’t understand what’s going on.”

She kept staring, so close now that he could feel the warmth of her breath. The blade was a slim straight promise against his throat. Her eyes were some nebulous light color, and he strained to find the will within them so he that could reach out and calm it. If such a warrior as she could be calmed.

Finally she nodded, lowered that choking weapon, and resumed her walk. “Where did you get that mark?”

“Here,” said Turin. “Just now. When I passed by the chapel there was an explosion. I blacked out, I think. When I found myself again, it was here.”

“Hm. It saved our lives.”

“Yes.” And, he realized, in doing so it had saved him from her. “If any more of these...doors...open, I may be able to stop them.” Yet he was not going back to that accursed chapel tonight. Let it be tomorrow in the light of day, when fears were less pressing. He was relieved to reflect that there was a contribution he could make without his preferred weapon. If he had had his musket...! But he had only what he had.

Thunder rippled in the distance. Within seconds fat raindrops were scudding down. After the evening’s exertions the cold was still too harsh to be pleasant. Turin picked up his pace and noted that Miss Cousland kept up easily, gesturing to left and right to point the way when they came upon intersections of the faint path.

His wits did not catch up with him until they rounded curve to see a long low house unrelieved by lights of any kind. Before he could offer his coat, they were at the doorstep. 

Once inside Fionne lit a lamp to carry to a back hallway, heedless of her own dripping skirts on the way. “Come this way,” she said. “There’s a guest room.”

“I d-don’t want to impose,” he stammered. Staying with a woman alone was not where he had expected this day to go.

“It would be far worse an imposition to turn you out and then have to attend your funeral after you catch your death of cold.” In the absence of a smile it was hard to tell whether she was joking. “Come.” She took her hand lamp and glided down the hall, leaving him to trail behind.

She paused outside a nondescript door and looked first at the glowing mark on his hand, then up at him. Thunder growled around the walls. “It’s a bad night for talking,” she said.

“The way you fought out there,” said Turin. “That was incredible.”

“I was trained by the best,” she said flatly.

“The…things…seemed to fear you.”

“Because they know what I am.” She appraised him with grey-blue eyes, brittle as rotten ice. “There is a great deal you must learn if you are to fight not only more rifts but the beasts beyond, Mr. Trevelyan. I can show you. I regret that the burden has chosen you…but I know a little about that feeling, too. For now, rest. I can have Harding bring up water if you need a bath.”

Staying with a woman alone, naked. Turin fought a sudden tightness in his throat. “Let’s not bother him on a night like this,” he said. “Your hospitality is enough.”

“Her. Thank you. For ending that thing. I fear the currency in which I can repay you is not an easy one. But we’ll deal with that tomorrow. Good night, Mr. Trevelyan.”

“Goodnight, Miss Cousland.” He had a thousand more questions to ask, but his benefactor was correct. It should wait until the morrow.


	3. Wakeful and Watchful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fionne Cousland deals with her houseguest Mr. Trevelyan, receives bad news from Lady Cassandra, investigates the ruined chapel, and meets an elven stranger.

Someone pounded on Fionne Cousland’s door in the morning. She, having risen early to run through her sabre forms, hurried to answer it. She was not accustomed to guests; but after the events of the evening, she supposed, there was no avoiding the neighbours.

Lady Cassandra herself stood outside, decked out in full battle armour with a steel helmet in place of a bonnet, a sure sign of trouble. “Miss Cousland,” she said, brusque as ever, if anything more urgent now. “There’s been a disaster.”

“I was out walking last night,” said Fionne. “The chapel is gone, isn’t it?”

“Yes. There were no survivors.” Lady Cassandra sighed. “But five dead. Do you know who was with Mother Justinia?”

“Alas, no. Her influence ran far and wide, especially since the troubles started; she could have been treating with anyone. Perhaps Templars. Perhaps mages.”

“You read my thoughts.” Lady Cassandra’s composure wavered. “You were close. Did you see anything else? Anything at all?”

“Better than that,” said Fionne. “I have a witness.”

“What? Where?” Lady Cassandra’s energy was almost a palpable thing at the threshold. Fionne stepped back and let her in.

“I may have to wake him,” she said. Lady Cassandra shot her a curious look, but Fionne retreated down the hallway rather than be drawn into a discussion of the propriety of keeping male houseguests.

She knocked at the guest-room door. The response was instant. “Yes?”

“We have a visitor,” she said. “Are you prepared to receive company?”

“I can be.”

“Take the hallway back to the front door, then to the room on your left,” she said, “whenever you’re ready.” Then she returned to Lady Cassandra and led her to the sitting room so indicated.

“The sky,” said Cassandra. “Have you seen it this morning?”

“I hadn’t looked.” Fionne pushed open her curtains and caught her breath, biting back a most unladylike exclamation. The green break in the sky now hung higher, deep set in clouds, and was yawning even wider than it had last night. The sight of it invited an oppressive dread. It did not content itself with looking damaged. It looked hungry.

“I saw this last night,” Fionne said in an involuntary whisper. “It was smaller.”

“We must find a way to close it,” said Lady Cassandra. “You have experience in many preternatural happenings. I thought you might have an insight into this.”

“Breaches in the sky are well outside my experience,” said Fionne, “and I would have been happy for it to remain so. But my guest may be of more use.”

Lady Cassandra frowned. “A mage?”

“Not exactly.”

Mr. Trevelyan walked in in clothes badly rumpled and rain-stained. He carried it with a certain dignity, though, a fact both women noted. His black hair was tucked behind his ears and his grey eyes, though red-rimmed, had a certain restless energy to them.

Cassandra leaped to her feet. “Mr. Trevelyan!” she cried.

“You know each other?” said Fionne, taken aback. The man seemed to be an endless font of surprises, a trait that did nothing to endear him to her.

“Madame Vivienne hosted him at last night’s dance,” said Cassandra. “He must have come…oh. Right past the chapel.”

“I did,” said Turin, and laid out his story. It had a disappointingly large gap in the middle. Yet this was all they had.

“Might the Chantry know more about what this might be?” suggested Fionne, anxious to have something useful to say.

“We can send to Orlais to ask,” said Lady Cassandra. “First let us examine the area for ourselves.”

“Are you ready for battle?” said Fionne. “There were demons.”

Cassandra patted a nothing in particular at her side under her skirt. It did not seem to correspond to anything large enough to be dangerous, but practitioners of the martial arts in Havenvale had their ways. “I am always ready.”

***

Lady Cassandra’s carriage being able to carry the three of them, they took that conveyance back through the forest along the narrow path back uphill toward the chapel. The mountains around them seemed to be closing in, crowned at the centre by the roiling green breach.

“Maker preserve us,” said Lady Cassandra, staring upward. “And Mother Justinia dead when I could not save her.”

“You couldn’t have saved her from this,” said Miss Cousland. “You would only have died as well, and then this valley would be without a protector.”

Lady Cassandra frowned. “Does it not have you?” 

“My record as a guardian is very poor,” said Miss Cousland. The colour was rising in her cheeks. “No, Lady Cassandra, it is best for us all that you live.”

Heat still shimmered over the ruined chapel, each stone still seeming to breathe a noxious air. The rift above was a green gleam wrapped about a shifting crystal mass, its light flickering perversely against the sunlight. Below the stones were black and red, the latter oddly fascinating to look at. Lady Cassandra produced a longsword from her petticoats and held it before her. Miss Cousland carried her musket. Turin clutched the musket Miss Cousland had loaned him; it was not the same as his own weapon but he would have to be a much greater fool than even he believed himself to be to reject the offer of self-preservation. 

The scene was no pleasanter than before. Lady Cassandra, stone-faced, paced the centre aisle and then picked her way into the sanctum where the five corpses waited, blackened and foul.

“This person was outlined with a staff in hand,” said Lady Cassandra, stopping over one motionless shape. “And this one had a Templar’s gauntlet.”

“She was gathering people to talk of the troubles, then?” said Miss Cousland.

“It would seem so. A secret negotiation between sides? How like her, to think that would work.”

“Do you believe it can’t?” said Turin. He was not a political man himself, but the troubles were overcoming the whole of Thedas so quickly that he felt his neutrality was a rapidly eroding island in the madness.

“Look around you,” Lady Cassandra said curtly. “It is obvious that someone didn’t want that negotiation to take place.”

“Someone powerful,” said Miss Cousland, raising her face to the sky. “And someone who marked our new guest.”

“If the mark closes rifts, then it brings less trouble, not more,” said Lady Cassandra. “But it must be considered one part of the whole.” She walked around a wide circle, her distress clear on her face. “Red lyrium,” she said quietly as she turned over a stone that seemed to have thrust from beneath the earth. “What can it mean?”

“Hello.” The voice was quiet and masculine, and led both Miss Cousland and Lady Cassandra to spin with readied swords. Turin raised his borrowed musket and began to sweep in every direction, searching.

But the person who walked up from the Ostwick road was just an elf in plain workman’s clothes. He was bald-headed and grave, suggesting an advanced age that had not yet touched his face or his wits.

Lady Cassandra extended her longsword. “Identify yourself.”

“My credentials would do you very little good,” he said in reply. “I am called Solas.”

This seemed to satisfy Lady Cassandra as little as it satisfied Turin. “I have never met you before,” she said.

“I have never come this way before, except in dreams.”

Lady Cassandra took two more steps toward him. No one here seemed about to stand on ceremony, least of all her. “Why are you here now?”

“I was curious. The troubles ravage this land from wilds to coast and beyond. When I chanced to hear that a prominent figure of the Chantry was trying her hand at mediation…I sought to observe. Now, it seems, I am too late to intervene.”

“Did you see what happened?” said Turin, in an agony of suspense.

“I was sleeping nearby,” said Mr. Solas. “There was an explosion, a green fire. Then this as you see. A ragged door to the Fade.”

Miss Cousland shook her head. “And the Fade is best left for dreams. Some of us could do without it there, as well.” Her sabre held perfectly steady, not quite raised to strike. “What is your interest in the troubles?”

“Why, madam,” he said blandly, “I am an apostate.”

Turin and the ladies exchanged wondering glances. Since the troubles most mages were apostates of one stripe or another, having left the protection of the Chantry’s Circles and the dubious assistance of the defensive Templars, but very few were foolhardy enough to trumpet it. Any Templar or Templar sympathizer would find little objection in killing such a one. Some even offered rewards for it, though this was of course a base sort of profiteering and a ghastly one at that.

This group seemed to err on the side of mercy, Turin noted. “Then perhaps,” he said, “you can tell us the meaning of this.” He raised his left hand. The mark snapped and sparked.

Solas stared a moment, then closed the distance between them at a near run. “It matches the door to the Fade above. Why? Here, give me your hand. It has the same energy.” But upon clasping Turin’s hand the tall elf stared at Turin himself, studying him every bit as closely as Fionne had the preceding evening. And with similarly ambiguous results. “I saw you,” he said at last. “Yes. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but – it was you.”

“Me what?” said Turin.

“I saw you last night. You stepped out of the air, out of the rift. There was a woman.”

The shock of being watched was followed up quickly by the shock of knowing why. “I remember,” Turin said faintly. “She was asking me…asking me something. I don’t remember.”

“A woman handing you safely through the Fade?” said Lady Cassandra. “That begins to beggar belief.”

“Who is to say that surviving the Fade isn’t someone’s idea of a benediction?” said Miss Cousland.

Mr. Solas raised one hand and seemed to shape something invisible in air.

“What are you doing?” Lady Cassandra said sharply.

“The Veil,” he said. “It is so thin. So damaged.”

He staggered backward. A great shadow coalesced around and above the rift’s shifting centre. In front of him appeared a translucent image of a woman in the cloth of the Chantry. 

“Keep the sacrifice still,” said a deep voice from the shadow.

“Someone help me,” cried the woman. 

The four watched raptly. “That was Mother Justinia’s voice,” said Lady Cassandra. “She called out to you, but…” 

Turin stared in open wonder as an image of him stumbled into the scene. “What are you doing?” said his image. “Unhand her!”

The suspended woman wriggled helplessly. Turin felt himself tensing, though he could do nothing to stop this now. Recollection prickled at the back of his neck while never quite merging with what he saw. “Run while you can!” cried the stranger. “Warn them!” 

The other voice, the deep voice, reverberated from the shadow. “We have an intruder. Slay him.”

Then images faded together.

Lady Cassandra leaped forward. “You were there! Who attacked? And Mother Justinia, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

Turin took this onslaught with all the grace he knew how to manage. “I would tell you if I knew,” he said. “But I cannot remember.”

“Echoes of what happened here,” said Mr. Solas. “The Fade bleeds into this place. This rift is not sealed.”

“He closed one last night,” said Miss Cousland, saving Turin the trouble of deciding whether it was worth the risk to admit his involvement so baldly. “Using the mark on his hand.”

“Then there is hope,” said Mr. Solas with another keen look. “I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“The Fade,” Lady Cassandra said weightily.

“Do we have another choice?” said Turin.

“Not if we wish to end this threat now,” said Mr. Solas.

That was enough. The duty was clear in requirement, if somewhat unknown in risk. Turin raised his hand, willing once more to be the channel closing the way. His mark sparkled and sent an arc of green energy to the hovering rift. It seemed scant seconds later that the reply burst through to this world: a razor-armed demon nearly the size of the rift itself.

Miss Cousland’s voice was pitched low but clear. “Pride,” she snarled, and raised her sabre.

Lady Cassandra was freeing a large black shield emblazoned with the order of Seekers’ heraldry from the carriage. “Let me go first,” she said, raising shield and longsword. Miss Cousland nodded fractionally, and the women started forward.

Mr. Solas, Turin noted, tapped his walking staff on the ground until a screeching arc of electricity leaped from staff to demon. After that demonstration of skill Turin paid him no mind, but instead concentrated on shooting the pride demon down.

“Your mark,” said Mr. Solas without taking his eyes off of their target. “Use it again.”

Setting his musket aside, Turin hurried to comply. In this situation the apostate might know more than any of them about what was needful for survival. Turin raised his hand. The rift boomed and flashed, drinking in the light from Turin’s mark. The demon howled as though struck to the quick. Encouraged, Turin willed his mark to the rift again, and again. The ladies fought like furies, and Turin kept working.

And the last time, the shifting crystal at the heart of the rift folded itself into a space impossibly small…

That was the last thing Turin saw.


	4. A Neighbourhood United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland meets an impertinent dwarf…oh, no, of course Master Tethras has to be involved…Lord Pavus rejects an offer of help…typical…and Mr. Solas answers a patient’s questions about the mark. But will it be enough?

“The rifts are appearing everywhere in the countryside.” Lady Cassandra sought out the braid crossing her otherwise close-cropped head and ran her fingers along it as if wishing for inspiration from the ether. “And the man who can govern them, even if we could trust him, is still unconscious!”

“We will prevail,” said Fionne. “Our inquiries are out for support from without. I myself have written to the Grey Wardens. We are remotely situated but we have the wherewithal to defend ourselves until more answers are in reach.”

What Fionne could not see was that Lady Cassandra could not decide whether the grim-faced Warden was truly unflappable in the face of adversity or simply insensible to danger, and it would be impossible to ask. “I realize that we have never been close,” Cassandra said hesitantly, “but I do depend on your assistance against the demons.”

“I have never wanted to be close,” Fionne said neutrally, “but you may count that as a fault of mine rather than any reflection on you. I offer my services willingly. As a Warden my mission is against the darkspawn of the deeps; but I have faced many demons in the past, and I do not fear them now.”

“Am I interrupting?”

Lady Cassandra jumped. Fionne tensed, looking to the sitting room door, but there in the doorway was just a lone dwarf. His clothes were fine of make, daring of cut, and slightly the worse for wear.

“What do you want, Master Tethras?” Lady Cassandra said, plainly wishing that it would involve leaving and never coming back.

“I was just thinking,” he said, seemingly oblivious to her hostility. “I can’t tell Mother Justinia about the beginnings of the troubles anymore, as she isn’t alive to hear it. But you’re surrounded and outnumbered now. If you restore Bianca to me I may be of some service.”

“Who is Bianca,” said Fionne, “and why does Lady Cassandra have her imprisoned?”

Lady Cassandra covered her face with one hand. The dwarf just smiled impertinently. “She’s my musket. And is the first thing the good Lady’s people took when they captured me for questioning outside Kirkwall.”

“Kirkwall?” Fionne hastened to raise her opinion of the stranger’s hardiness. “You truly were at the beginning of the troubles, then?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Master Tethras looked around, then fixed Fionne with an almost aggressively friendly look. “You must be the famous Grey Warden.”

“There are many famous Grey Wardens,” said Fionne. “I just happen to be the local one.”

“What a story that must be, eh? Disgraced traitor on the run to saviour of Thedas? Ever think about immortalizing it in prose?”

Fionne rarely spoke of it, but something about the dwarf’s cheerful insolence stung her to the quick. “I loved a good man. He died saving me and everyone. It’s not such a good story.”

The dwarf nodded judiciously. “Old story, but a respectable one. Empires are built and broken on less. Let me know if you ever change your mind.”

“So you can exaggerate her as you did Mr. Hawke,” said Lady Cassandra, scowling. “Even if I arm you again, you still remain here. Hunter Fell is most centrally located in the county. Which reminds me. Miss Cousland, you are welcome to stay here with your servant. It will minimize the travel to reach rifts in the valley.”

“And it’s fewer places to protect, if we evacuate the lesser residences,” said Fionne. “A prudent measure, Lady Cassandra. Perhaps after I’ve had the chance to make a few preparations.” She stood. “I should go patrol. If more rifts open we must needs contain the demons until Mr. Trevelyan is once again ready to ride out.”

“Miss Cousland, you have done nothing but patrol for three days.”

“And I’ll keep doing it as long as necessary,” said Miss Cousland. She thought Cassandra to be the vigorous type who would understand such measures, and she suspected, despite the lady’s objection, that she did approve in some way. “Thank you for the tea, Lady Cassandra. I shall report when I find something.”

***

“Miss Cousland! Just the person I was looking for!”

Miss Cousland and Lord Pavus had never gotten along, except each by the other’s absence. Lord Pavus despaired of Miss Cousland’s reserve, her disciplined mindset, her horror of frippery; and Miss Cousland by the same token dreaded his flair, his prattle, his bright refusal to let serious things remain serious. Were it not for the occasional hunting encounter in the woods between their lands they would probably not correspond at all.

Miss Cousland eased her horse to a stop and allowed Lord Pavus to approach. He was decked out gaily in an over-the-shoulder contraption that left one brown arm bare. She wondered idly whether he would wear it to dinner to-night, and whether Lady Cassandra would put up with it.

“Lord Pavus,” she said at last. “How are you faring?”

“Well, life’s certainly gotten interesting.” He was a fine horseman, she could not dispute; and he cantered up close then whirled to face the same direction she did. “There’s an eldritch tear in reality in my kitchen in the most offensive shade of green and I’ve no means of patching it up. I set up a barrier and evacuated the servants. That’s the best I can do.”

“No doubt your quick thinking saved them. Have you thought about joining us at Hunter Fell?”

“So a single badly placed rift with its attendant bevy of demons can wipe out the entire gentry of Havenvale? I’ve thought about it, but I fail to see the appeal.”

She weighed her words and decided that the best way to counter his incurable levity was with directness. “I would prefer to have you where I can protect you.”

His eyebrows shot up, leaving her to fear that she had given offense where she only meant pragmatism. “My dear lady, this is not my first dance with demons. I would hardly be a Tevinter if I didn’t know how to deal with an infestation.”

“Ah. I had not thought of it that way. Of course you were a magister.” It was a strange world, Fionne reflected, in which that statement could be thought of as comforting. A land ruled by mages made the troubles look insignificant.

Lord Pavus stroked his moustache. “An altus, actually. Not every mage in Tevinter is a magister.”

“Really?” It was more of Lord Pavus’s background than she had ever had occasion to discover. “Somehow my lessons skipped that detail.”

“Most foreigners do.”

“And yet you consent to live among us.” She did not smile, as she had grown weary of smiles many sorrows ago, but she thought he caught the tone of her voice enough to understand her amusement.

“I’m trying, anyway,” he said. “Demons notwithstanding. I shall not bring my household to Hunter Fell today, but once we’ve had a chance to sit down and discuss what’s going on, I’ll be better able to mount a defense. How is Hunter Fell faring?”

“We have more questions than answers, and presently more demons than defenders. I hope to remedy both problems when the man with the mark awakens.”

Lord Pavus’s dark eyes narrowed, though his smile never budged. “My dear Miss Cousland, you really will have to explain that.”

How to explain a situation that seemed to turn itself upside down every few hours? She could only lay out what she knew. Perhaps the mage would understand better than she did. Or perhaps he would just say something witty and ride off into the green-tinged sunset. It was always so hard to tell.

Lord Pavus listened with every evidence of thorough attentiveness. At the end he said “So that’s the man my servants are already calling an emissary of Andraste. What do you say to that?”

What could one say to such a nonsensical idea? It went against all propriety to bring the prophetess Andraste into discussions of ordinary people. And to think that the perfectly unremarkable Mr. Trevelyan had divine favour…”What?” said Fionne.

“My sentiments exactly. Evidently some woman helped him out of the Fade? And we can’t have mystery women, so she must have an identity. And if she must have an identity why not make it the most grandiose one possible?”

The implications made Fionne’s head spin. The situation was quite complex enough without bringing the Maker and His bride into it. “Whatever she was, she did save him from the Fade.”

“Is that adequate qualification for divinity?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it’s too late to stop the rumors.”

Lord Pavus grinned, adjusting the upward curl of his devilish moustache. “Isn’t it always?”

***

Turin awoke from a sequence of dreams that seemed to grow less comprehensible the longer they went on, and that seemed to have gone on for time beyond remembering. He felt a latecomer to his own dream, doubly so when he finally succeeded in waking up.

The elf Mr. Solas was seated at a desk very near the bed. He was reading. He looked up when Turin stirred. “Mr. Trevelyan,” he said. “You sleep soundly.”

Where was he? Back at Amaranth, no doubt, or else another nearby house. “Is everyone all right?” He was startled but gratified to find that his voice sounded full and steady. 

“Yes. More rifts have been discovered, and only your mark may close them. But the ladies of the neighborhood are holding firm. And have, for the last three days.”

“Three days?” Turin’s head throbbed with the unwelcome news. “And you?”

“I? Study,” he said. “Thus far I have kept the mark from leeching its energies directly out of you. You should be fit to travel without incident.”

“Travel?” Turin felt, very acutely, that if he didn’t keep asking questions this situation was going to race away from him again. “Where am I going?”

“Back to the breach, once we have the power to close it for good. That has been the topic of some debate.”

“I couldn’t close it the first time, then. Can you help me this time?”

Mr. Solas sighed, a gesture that oddly coincided with a breath of cold air from beneath the door of the dimly lit chamber. “I can try,” he said.

Silence fell between them, too rough as of yet to pick up and handle. At least, so it seemed to Turin. Mr. Solas tilted his head. “Are you going to ask where you are?”

“Oh,” said Turin. “It didn’t seem important.”

“You are in Hunter Fell,” he said, “in its most secure room, which is presently locked. Outside the servants are talking of you. They are calling you the Herald of Andraste.”

Turin understood at once. “Because of the woman.”

Mr. Solas nodded. “Because of the woman. Do you remember nothing of what she said to you?”

“Nothing but what we saw back there.” A vision that held only more questions, ones that his memory was wholly inadequate to answer. “Are they really giving me a title?”

“You will see soon enough for yourself.” Solas put aside his reading and stood. “As soon as you can stand upright, the ladies of the neighborhood will require you.”

“All of them?” he said with an involuntary smile, and instantly tensed. He did not know how Mr. Solas would take the decidedly inappropriate joke.

“All of them,” echoed Mr. Solas, with a smile whose significance Turin could not comprehend. It worried him. But then, the list of things to worry about could only begin to subside if Turin set about his work.


	5. A Tour of the Local Environs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the nobility proceeds to Lord Pavus’s residence to exterminate demons (– how uncivilised! –) and Miss Cousland hosts an informal gathering. (Is this really the best time for that?)

The ladies looked up from their sword-whetting when Turin and Mr. Solas entered. Lady Josephine took the opportunity to discreetly shake out her cramped hand. 

Lady Cassandra stood at once, followed shortly by Miss Cousland and Lady Josephine. Cassandra addressed herself to Mr. Solas: “Can he travel?”

“Are you feeling well?” added Lady Josephine.

“He seems perfectly capable of walking,” said Madame Vivienne. “Well then, we won’t have to quarantine Mount Asariel after all.”

Turin felt a growing urgency to intervene before the assembly decided his fate for him. “Ladies,” he said, bowing. “I pray our situation is not so very dire.”

“Not anymore,” said Miss Cousland, in that flat tone that might be hostility or only her natural timbre. “I shall notify Lord Pavus.” She favoured Turin with a nod on her way out of the room.

Turin, fascinated less by her plain brown dress than by the rigid balance with which she wore it, half turned to watch her go. “Does she smile?” he asked no one in particular.

“Not since she moved to Amaranth,” said Madame Vivienne. “Her history is a tragic one.”

He should like to see her shaken from it to a real smile, he thought to himself; yes, that would be a sight indeed. Not only due to her fortune of six thousand crowns. But all that was a question for another time. “Ladies,” he said again, “I am at your service.”

“If Mount Asariel is settled,” said Lady Josephine, “Miss Cousland has promised to host a soiree at Amaranth to-morrow night.”

“That will be just the thing,” said Turin with some satisfaction. “Just the thing.”

***

The ride to Mount Asariel was blessedly uneventful, at least to begin with. Mr. Solas had stayed at home promising to access what answers he could from the Fade, and his utter self-possession permitted no questions of the safety or sanity of the endeavour. The ladies rode well-armed and silent, the mysterious Master Tethras staying hard by Lady Cassandra’s side. Turin fell in beside Lord Pavus.

“You live here?” Turin said hesitantly, referring to the County at large.

“More or less. I winter in the Imperium, you know. The countryside here gets so dull.” Lord Pavus laughed and, very quickly, looked Turin over. “Until lately, that is.”

Turin’s cravat was, he decided, a little too tight. “I understand you’re a wizard of some repute.”

“Family business. I wanted to be a firefighter, but what can you do?”

How new-fangled. “I hadn’t realized firefighter was a full-time career.”

“That really depends on the neighborhood. With the number of rage demons coming through we may rapidly come to regret my ultimate career choice.”

How glib. But compared with most of the people Turin had met so far Lord Pavus was pleasantly talkative, and friendly company was something he had missed since leaving the Free Marches on this strangely fated journey. “Are you a student of the, er, practical arts?”

“As opposed to a student of writing treatises about treatises about treatises? Yes. I flatter myself that I may stand against the average demon and then some. Were I able to close the rifts outright I dare say this little infestation in the county would come to nothing very soon.”

“I hope I can be of service there. I for one am hoping that Miss Cousland’s soiree the day after to-morrow is not interrupted.”

“Really? A peculiar lady, that Miss Cousland.” Lord Pavus cast a look backward. “She buried her sense of humour, her heart, and I can only assume most of her fashion sense, at a state funeral ten years ago.”

Turin frowned, taken aback. “You don’t like her.”

“I hardly know enough to dislike her. She’s lived in the neighborhood since the war and said scarcely two words to anyone. I can’t decide whether it’s because she hates foreigners in general, me in particular, or the whole world. Now that she’s showing her face…” the young man shrugged…”I am astonished that she’s gone so far as to invite people over.”

“The Inquisition seems to be bringing the neighborhood together,” said Turin. “I for one am very curious to see Amaranth.” His one strange night there had left him craving more information on the recluse and her chosen environs.

“So are we all,” said Lord Pavus. “You’re the chosen one, maybe you can get her to open up.”

“Me? Our relationship is strictly professional. So far she seems only interested in keeping me in one piece so I can continue to combat rifts. She mentioned making a Grey Warden out of me, or a soldier at least.”

Lord Pavus made a dismissive gesture. “A dreary fate. Avoid it at all costs.”

“I can’t very well be a firefighter,” Turin pointed out, essaying a smile.

Lord Pavus returned it. “Take a leaf from my book. Pick up a musket or whatever it takes to do some damage at a range that will keep our respective good looks out of danger. You won’t regret it. Better, you’ll be alive to not regret it.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Turin, wondering suddenly whether he had good looks to keep out of danger. He wasn’t bad, surely, but…enough of that. “What are the odds Master Tethras will show me around some musketry?”

“Couch it as a chance to show off. He won’t resist.”

The thought of refusing Miss Cousland’s sword lessons outright evoked a small pang; the thought of disappointing her by doing so, doubly so. But then, would she care? Turin resolved to make himself a student of both schools. Through diligent application, surely he could make himself effective at any range.

Which meant he should start directly. Or at least, as soon as was practicable; for as he rounded a bend in the road a tall wisp of green light showed itself over a high stately-looking house, and Turin knew that he had found Mount Asariel.

***

The rift at noble Mount Asariel was quickly dealt with, and the gentry’s attention presently turned to the soiree at Amaranth, the first gathering Fionne had hosted since first coming to the county some ten years ago, and the last one she intended to host before moving into Hunter Fell and fortifying against the onslaught of demons.

“Do you have everything you need?” Fionne asked, again. 

The dwarf Harding gave her an exasperated look. “Miss Cousland, the only thing needful for supper is a few hours without demons, and I believe your Mr. Trevelyan arranged that yesterday.”

It was true that the rift at Mount Asariel was closed, and the demons in the neighborhood cleared; so too was it true that Amaranth had been cleaned, polished, and opened as far as it had ever been during Fionne’s tenure there. By pure logic she should be staying at Hunter Fell at all times, but she felt some stirrings of domestic pride now that everyone in the neighborhood was mingling. She could host one little soiree before retreating to safety. 

Fionne found the office of hostess stressful, but Madame Vivienne and Lady Josephine in particular seemed determined to keep the party merry, and she gratefully left the burden of conversation in their hands. Master Tethras was cheerfully impertinent, Lord Pavus almost manically jovial, Mr. Solas quietly friendly, Lady Cassandra preoccupied, Madame Vivienne commanding, Lady Josephine seemingly determined to map the neighbourhood newcomer’s sense of humor. And Mr. Trevelyan, well, he ate and drank and laughed as though all their lives weren’t hanging by a thread. Was he paying her particular attention? Or was that warm insolence just his way of behaving? It was impossible to say. Fionne found herself longing for the quiet. It was agreed that everyone would return to Hunter Fell or Mount Asariel that night rather than waiting for demons at the relatively poorly fortified Amaranth; thus she would be leaving home, but even a guest room would be welcome after such a long meal.

There was no dancing, as Harding had not had the time or wherewithal to clear out the furniture stored in the larger guest chamber. Instead the party repaired to the smaller guest room, where the harpsichord rested in dusty slumber.

“Do you play, Miss Cousland?” said Lord Pavus. “Really, we must hear you.”

“I hardly ever practice,” demurred Fionne. “Surely one of the other ladies…or you, Lord Pavus.”

“Ah, the arts. I never bother unless I can be the best. Perhaps one song, Miss Cousland? A short song. It would liven up the evening so.”

“I refuse to believe you would keep an instrument you have not mastered,” said Mr. Trevelyan. “Regale us just this once. Then we can leave you in peace.”

“Could, but probably won’t,” said Master Tethras.

Blushing, Fionne opened the harpsichord’s keyboard and, after dusting the bench with her hand, sat. “This was a piece an old friend of mine taught me during the war. I never forgot it.”

The moment her fingertips met the polished keys the rest of the room faded away. She was no expert at the harpsichord, far from it; but what songs she knew were old friends and had whiled away many an idle hour. So she played. She remembered a studio in Highever. She remembered the patience of her instructor, and the excitement of getting it right. She almost remembered the painful thing, but schooled herself back to her own study, her own instrument, her own guests. It was a cheerful melody, constantly in motion, full of flourishes and grace notes, and she played every one as though practice had ripened into warm acquaintance. She flourished once more and closed.

Applause sounded. Fionne turned around to see her smiling guests, and made a small bow. The ladies were all politeness. Master Tethras at least looked like he wasn’t about to launch any verbal volleys, and Lord Pavus was already turning to tell him and Mr. Solas something amusing. Mr. Trevelyan, smiling oddly slyly, gave her a nod at the very edge of a bow. 

“One more,” he urged, quietly but with warmth. “You can’t deny us one more.”

She could deny him that and a great deal else, but she had one more song in mind, another cheerful one learned in happier days. Only dimly aware of the other polite urgings, Fionne turned back to gambol into the next piece. 

But when she had finished she pleaded fatigue; and no one else volunteered to take up the office. Thus was the musical portion of the evening concluded. Were it not so important to lay plans for the continued defense of Havenvale Fionne might have sought Mr. Trevelyan out to ask more of his impressions; however, his awe seemed to have faded, and he turned to business without further comment. She reminded herself sternly that she didn’t need his approbation, nor anyone’s. It was a satisfaction, though, to know she had acquitted herself tolerably well.

The remainder of the evening was given over to discussion of the Breach and its scattered riftlings, and while no conclusions were reached, they at least agreed to stand in readiness.


	6. Gathering to the Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an Inquisition is established by the concerned citizenry to deal with the Breach and other ills, a Chantry sister and unaffiliated military officer (– was Captain Rutherford ever so ordinary? –) come to Havenvale, and society in general benefits.

It seemed that the rifts of Havenvale itself were closed; and yet, as suppliers arrived from out of town, the locals heard that the Breach had smaller children all over the countryside, at least in Ferelden and Orlais. Something would have to be done; and, though it went unsaid, everyone knew who would have to do it.

Lady Cassandra invited Lord Pavus and the other locals to Hunter Fell for dinner. She was quiet through the meal, as she often was when matters of business were not to be touched on. Some time after the final course, however, she tapped her dessert spoon against her empty glass. “Ladies and gentlemen. Your attention, please. I must come to the reason for our gathering this evening.”

“I thought the food was it,” said Master Tethras.

Lady Cassandra frowned at him. “I refer to the destruction of the chapel two weeks ago, and the subsequent occurrence of…rifts, into another world. Rifts through which demons come. 

“I shall not stand for it. We must take up arms to defend not only our homes, but our world. We must determine the root cause of this – the green breach in the sky, the rifts beneath. I have corresponded with allies in the Chantry and I can now announce the formation of an Inquisition to set this world to rights.”

A palpable energy ran through the room, as every guest seemed to tense up a little in response to the announcement.

“A bold gesture,” said Mr. Solas. “Have you the wherewithal to back it up?” 

“That is part of what we must discuss. Everyone here was in the area when this phenomenon began. It is in all our interests to remain until it is resolved. Mr. Solas, I am told you are a master of the arcane. Can we count on you to research this?”

“I fear my knowledge may not be to your liking,” said the elf, inclining his head, “but I shall do what I can.” 

“Lady Josephine. We will need allies beyond the borders of the county if this threat continues. Can we rely on your pen?”

“Without a doubt,” said Lady Josephine, graciously nodding.

“Lord Pavus. Your skill in the eldritch arts is well known.”

Lord Pavus smiled brightly. “And you’re just dying to know whether I have the requisite demon expertise, I suppose?”

“Any expertise you have,” Lady Cassandra said firmly. “Will you aid us?”

“It certainly seems more affordable than rebuilding the neighbourhood after every rift. Consider me at your service.”

“Miss Cousland. Your skill and gallantry are beyond question, and we will need fighters wherever these rifts open. Will you lend your blade?”

“That, and whatever I can serve in the way of training,” said Miss Cousland. “I hope a Grey Warden’s skills will be of use.”

“Thank you,” said Lady Cassandra. “Now. Master Tethras, you were only here by accident. Next. Madame Vivienne, you would honour us with your talents.”

“Yes,” said Vivienne, “I believe I would. This breach nonsense benefits no one. I say we close it directly.”

“A fine idea,” said Lord Pavus. “Why didn’t we just do that two weeks ago? How silly of us!”

Cassandra frowned. “For that, I must ask our most recent newcomer. Mr. Turin Trevelyan. You bear the mark that closes the rifts. The Inquisition requires that power. Will you stand with us?”

Turin stood and cleared his throat. The dinner guests stared at him with a unity that left him a little out of breath. “It would be my honour, Lady Cassandra.” Not least among his reasons was the fact that she would probably shut him up in the basement again if he said no.

Lady Cassandra nodded. “So be it. A holy sister of the Chantry will be in the county within a week, and she will bring military reinforcements. Until that time it is up to us. Mr. Trevelyan, my estate is most centrally located; I suggest you remain here.”

“Not in under lock and key, I hope,” muttered Master Tethras. “Though that does seem to be her preferred method of hospitality.”

Lady Cassandra fixed him with a blazing look. Everyone else looked politely away.

“The meringue is really very good,” said Lady Josephine.

“Quite!” said Lord Pavus. “I rather wish it had been the first course so I had room for more of them.”

“You realize your servants could make it equally well at home,” said Madame Vivienne, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, but then what would I find to talk about? Things are so much more interesting here.”

Something thudded loudly in the hallway. Moments later a wild-eyed servant burst in. “Lady Cassandra! Demons!”

The guests jumped to their feet. After a flash of petticoats Lady Cassandra had a gleaming longsword in her hand. Master Tethras produced an oddly shaped musket out of nowhere. Miss Cousland’s cavalry sabre was out again. And everyone was moving for the door, leaving the meringues forgotten.

Turin ran with them. What else was there to do?

***

The party came on horseback: a woman in a deep hood, a broad-shouldered man in an outsize coat, what looked like a Chantry clerk, and half a dozen soldierly types, all accompanied by Harding, who had taken to scouting duty with flair. Fionne knew the other woman and knew her well. Her heart leaped to see one of her comrades from the days of the war, here alive and hale. They had faced far worse than this before, and, Fionne had no doubt, would rise to the occasion again.

Beside Fionne, Lady Cassandra sighed. “I had hoped for more,” she said quietly.

“They’ll come,” said Fionne. “We’ll find a way.” Personally she was just thinking about training this group. They looked too young to have served in the war. That meant she would have to start at the beginning. And their commander, whichever one of the two foremost was it. Would he or she be willing to hand over some of the responsibility?

Lady Cassandra took the last few steps to meet the party, and the party stopped, their horses whickering.

“Sister Leliana,” Cassandra said clearly. “Captain Rutherford. I’m so glad you arrived safely.”

“The countryside isn’t so dangerous as that,” the hooded woman said lightly. “At least, not yet. Though I did pass the construction of trebuchets by the old chapel.”

“A necessary precaution. Leliana, this is Miss Cousland. Miss Cousland…”

“We’ve met.” Leliana’s eyes sparkled. “It has been some time, but I hope you have not forgotten your old friend.”

“Dear Leliana,” and Fionne found herself meaning it. “It raises my spirits to know we’ll have you in the battles to come. Welcome to Havenvale.” Then, remembering herself, “And who is this?”

“Captain Rutherford of the order of Templars, and commander of these forces,” supplied Lady Cassandra. “I have had occasion to work with him before in my capacity as Seeker of the Chantry.” Captain Rutherford nodded, solemn-faced, and Lady Cassandra seemed to hesitate. “Captain, Miss Cousland, our resident Grey Warden.”

The man bowed in his saddle. “Miss Cousland,” he said gruffly. “It’s an honour to meet a genuine war hero.”

The name was familiar, and the face, too. “You served as well,” she said. “Do you remember meeting, briefly, on the Fereldan Circle’s estate?”

His brow furrowed and he looked away. “Yes,” he said. “I much prefer this introduction.”

She could understand his reluctance, given the painful circumstance of their one encounter, and at once regretted bringing it up. “As one war hero to another. Welcome.”

“Is Mother Justinia here?” Sister Leliana said eagerly. “I had been hoping to get her perspective on events.”

“Ah,” said Lady Cassandra. “I fear I have only ill news for you, for Mother Justinia was slain in the opening of the Breach.”

A series of changes came over Sister Leliana’s features, passing in rapid succession and leaving her looking cautiously angry. “No. Are you certain?”

“I cannot describe the scene with any justice. We are certain, Sister Leliana. I am sorry.”

“As we must all be, at such ill news.” She struggled with her composure and kept it, if only barely. “She was ever my ally in my capacity as the Chantry’s left hand.”

“And mine as its right,” Lady Cassandra said. “With a weak Divine and the troubles afoot…these have become dark times.”

The silence that fell seemed to oppress all present equally. It was Captain Rutherford who cleared his throat. “There will be time for mourning. That is perhaps a question for later. For now…”

“Ah, yes.” Leliana introduced the half-dozen soldiers, and Cassandra summoned a servant to find them lodging and practice space. 

“I didn’t have time to arrange a ball,” said Cassandra, “but I hope you will both attend a welcoming luncheon to-morrow noon.”

“You really don’t have to,” said Captain Rutherford.

“We would be delighted,” said Sister Leliana. And that was that.

***

The addition of the Chantry sister turned spymaster and the Templar captain turned troop commander made the circle a lively one, enough so for Turin to wonder to himself whether so many healthy and active unmarried adults could remain unmarried for long. He thought this not only on his own behalf; Mr. Solas or Master Tethras would, he thought privately, benefit immensely from a lady’s influence. Or, for Lord Pavus, a gentleman’s.

Even the news received by a visibly shaken Sister Leliana, that the Chantry had denounced the Inquisition and its Herald, could not completely dampen his spirits. In all honesty he could do as much good with them as without; and the Chantry’s forces seemed like only a remote threat compared to the heroism of the county gentry. The only disturbance to this was his advisors’ recommendation, that they begin to build up in spite of the Chantry. Assistance must be had to close the Breach for good. Sister Leliana and Lady Josephine laid out persuasive arguments for gaining the influence to treat with the rebel mages, who might take time from the troubles to help seal the Breach if the Inquisition made it worth their while; Captain Rutherford steadily maintained that the Templars, whose very reason for existence was to suppress magic, would be the more reliable allies. Privately Turin agreed with Captain Rutherford. Was not a mage the author of the troubles to begin with? Could he trust any more of that stripe? He had some sympathy for those Circle mages who had been thrown into a revolution; but sympathy and trust were far from the same quantity.

So it was that he left with a small delegation to the Fereldan lowlands, where they encountered more bears than human beings; still, they persevered, hoping to gain favor with the locals and particularly the arl of Redcliffe. Such a respectable personage would go a long way toward establishing the Inquisition as a force not to be trifled with.

He soon found that everyone knew someone in southern Ferelden, or at least, everyone wanted someone killed in southern Ferelden. The only peaceful mission initiated by his compatriots was an Elven artifact unearthed by Mr. Solas, who begged leave to activate it in order to strengthen the local Veil between Fade and reality, a bulwark against the rifts. Lady Cassandra had a target of the Order of Seekers who needed to be removed; Lord Pavus took exception to a group of mages known as Venatori; Madame Vivienne wished to relieve certain rebel mages of some Circle tomes that they would not surrender peacefully. Turin could only imagine that if Captain Rutherford were here he would demand some large military maneuver. As it was, however, Turin traversed plenty of ground in his quest to seal rifts. And sealing rifts made friends. And friends redounded to the benefit of the Inquisition, which grew in Turin’s wake like a garden he had never known he had the capacity to plant.

And all along he took Varric’s lessons in marksmanship and Miss Cousland’s lessons in swordsmanship, an endeavour that had the feeling of urgent necessity as he found himself facing demon after demon. His dwarven mentor was friendly, all solicitous questions and easygoing banter. His Human one was unsmiling, and habitually haughty. If she was a representative of the Grey Wardens it was no wonder that they had such a lackluster reputation. But at times she was judiciously encouraging of his progress. If he had to have two tutors shadowing his every move, he could well have done worse than this.

The Inquisition swelled. Turin stood at its centre more than its head; he took counsel now with Captain Rutherford and the Ladies Leliana, Cassandra, and Josephine, and they looked to him to decide on insoluble problems more often than he would have expected. The mark, whatever its provenance and nature, conferred on him at least enough authority to speak up amidst his elders.

The mark. Was it a sign of Andraste’s favour? He surely had no other explanation for it. It still hurt, a steady ache he was learning to ignore but found himself unable to wholly forget. But it closed the rifts in the Veil, locking the Fade away from reality, and such an ability was supernatural beyond even the reach of mages. He had what was needed when it was needed most. Surely someone had marked him for something. It was his responsibility to live up to it.


	7. The Fledgling and the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Chantry raises objections (inevitable), Mr. Trevelyan encounters a requirement he does not enjoy (That could be anything.), Miss Cousland offers advice, and the Herald proceeds to Val Royeaux. (What welcome will they find there?)

“Look at this,” said Sister Leliana. She threw a parchment onto the coordination table in Hunter Fell’s drawing room. “The Chantry is serious. We extend them an invitation to tea and they flout us. They have accused us of harboring a heretic. Do they believe nothing of our intentions? Is not one of us at least trying to set the world to rights?”

“We could not expect their silence for long after Mother Justinia’s death,” said Lady Cassandra. “She was well regarded by many.”

Sister Leliana took an interest in her handkerchief. “I know,” she said softly.

“We must find a way to turn this to our advantage,” said Lady Josephine. 

“And how do we do that?” said Turin. Every path out of this corner seemed disastrous at best. “Out-Chantry the Chantry?” 

“The Chantry and the Divine have been passive for years,” said Sister Leliana. “Mother…” her voice broke, and Turin looked away out of delicacy…”Mother Justinia, Maker rest her, was their greatest doer.” She paused. From what Turin gathered Sister Leliana had known the lost figure well. “If we take the more proactive role we will attract allies.”

“There will still be a dance tonight,” said Lady Cassandra.

Leliana smiled, but it seemed a smile conscious of sorrows that could not be danced away. “Life must go on,” she said. “That much is certain.”

 

***

 

Turin at first mistook the hooded assembly in the sheltered valley for a group of picnickers. They disabused him of this notion, violently, by means of a sudden hue and cry and the flinging of several sparkling bolts. In a moment’s confusion Turin raised his musket and his companions dismounted, spreading to either side. 

“Seekers!” shouted the militant mages, no doubt due to the device on Lady Cassandra’s shield. No one else hesitated, so Turin did not. In the chaos he did not see whether his bullets struck home. He only knew that he fired and they fell.

The conflict was brief. For several long moments thereafter the scene was silent but for Lady Cassandra wiping her sword and Lord Pavus soothing his horse. Turin wiped the sweat from his brow, took a breath, and attempted to collect his wits.

“Mr. Trevelyan?”

“Yes?” he said absently.

Lady Cassandra entered his oddly constricted field of vision. “What is it?”

This was not the stuff of demons. It was not at all. “I’ve never killed a man before,” he said distantly. No defensive work, this, nor support.

Lord Pavus was all cheer. “For what it’s worth, he was a very bad one.”

“Which one?” Lady Cassandra said dryly.

“How can you joke about this?” With an effort Turin averted his eyes from the fallen bodies, and with an equally urgent effort he forced his gaze back. “This was our handiwork.”

“It was kill or be killed,” said Lady Cassandra. “You know that.”

“Are we to be greeted like this again in the future?”

“More than likely,” said Lord Pavus. “If you think this is bad you should see Minrathous during society season.”

“I do not think you’re helping,” said Lady Cassandra. “Come. We should continue on our way.”

If it was a crime, no one was there to sit in judgment. He thought longingly of home, and turned his steps thither. 

 

***

The society season continued into high summer. It would take more than the end of the world to stop that. The week was dedicated to expeditions to the field, but each Sunday night, anyone still on guard in the valley came together for supper.

Turin tried to be back for these, rift responsibilities notwithstanding. He was rapidly growing fond of the small but dedicated circle of people who formed the backbone and the shield of Havenvale. He was the youngest in that circle, by a large margin, but his status as rift-closer – as the Herald of Andraste, as some said, and he was beginning to wonder whether they weren’t right after all, for his abilities truly did seem providential – his status allowed him to move among them with impunity.

One night in particular the dancers lined up. Hunter Fell’s hall, enormous though it was, filled nearly wall to wall with the guests in their finery.

Even here Miss Cousland did not smile. She moved with an assurance that contrasted sharply with the ladylike grace of the other female guests. Did everyone else notice? They must. Turin clapped, turned, took her gloved hand and led her around into the next figure.

“I think Lady Cassandra’s Inquisition has merit,” Miss Cousland said, her voice perfectly pitched beneath the music. “But I fear her lack of experience with demons will work to her detriment.”

“You could advise her.”

“More than I already do? Not until I know what sort of animal she’s trying to raise. Protect her as you will, but make no promises. The mark must not be bound to any one person’s political aspirations.”

“Except yours?”

Anger flashed in her eyes, fleeting but knife-sharp. But she was spinning away, too, and had returned to her usual calm hauteur when she lined up again.

He bowed. She curtseyed. They flurried into the next stage, and did not speak again until the final round of the dance.

“My politics are the preservation of the realm,” she said tartly and without preamble. “A Warden fights the rejects of the Fade across all history. If this does not satisfy, you may find your own teacher.”

“I meant no offense,” he said, too late. “You show interest since the mark manifested. I have to be a little suspicious of everyone who does.”

She nodded. He thought her lip trembled a moment. “I understand. But believe me, in all this…watch for the people who care about your power, and watch for the people who care about you. It will be very difficult to survive this if you only find the former.”

They turned. They clapped. “What are you trying to claim?” he said, as loudly as he dared.

“I claim nothing. I only offer you advice on the subject of what to do with unwanted distinction.”

But why, was the question? She hardly publicly associated with him outside their training. She barely even seemed to like him. What could she say about his responsibility now? “Miss Cousland…how did you end the last war?”

Worlds snapped shut in her grey-blue eyes. “That is not a story for polite company.”

The dance ended. Polite company closed in all around.

 

***

Master Tethras surprised Turin at practicing lordly gestures in front of the mirror. Turin only jumped a little bit as he folded his hands behind his back. “Master Tethras! What is it?”

“Mister Herald. I hear our next move is of the Val Royeaux persuasion.”

“We did recently receive an anonymous invitation, yes.” It boded well. “Recognition by the nobles of Orlais will go a long way toward earning support from the Templars.”

“Or the mages,” Master Tethras said idly.

“Yes, yes, of course. The point is, legitimacy will be earned by any victory we can earn.”

Master Tethras gave him a vaguely foreboding look. “It’s hard to pick out winners in the Great Game.”

Turin bridled. “Do you believe we have no chance?”

“I didn’t say that. I’ll pack up. Then we’ll go see what Orlais is all about.”

Turin, with all the optimism of his station, continued his preparations. There was much to do.

 

***

 

Val Royeaux was a repulse; it was a disaster; it was not to be spoken of. From the first anonymous summons to the final scene wherein the Lord Seeker of Templars denounced the Herald and led his own men out of the city in defiance of both Chantry and Inquisition, from the first importunate nobleman to the last mysterious offer of help from rogue mages whose methods Turin could not tolerate, Val Royeaux made itself so odious in Turin’s mind that he found it impossible to stay there even overnight, not until they had an invitation from a more welcoming host. The Inquisition would have to find another way to secure the assistance of reliable allies. This Turin could work towards. He had the beginnings right in Havenvale.

 

***

 

“Of course Val Royeaux was a disaster, my dear,” said Madame Vivienne. “You putting your toe in the Game couldn’t go any other way. Never fear, you shall have a chance to try again. Probably sooner than you want it.”

Turin kept his pride firmly in hand. He had to, when Madame Vivienne was around, and the effort galled him. “And will I have you to help me next time?”

“My dear. Miss Cousland teaches you how to stab things. Master Tethras teaches you how to shoot things. Take a little time away from your training yard and I shall show you how to _win_.”


	8. Additions and Subtractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an unusual elf joins the Inquisition (stranger than Solas? I doubt it), Miss Cousland finds the Calling (should that mean something?) , a band of mercenaries make themselves useful, and Mr. Solas expresses displeasure with the direction of the Inquisition. (Can he improve upon it himself?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was remiss yesterday. Here it is.

Turin returned from glittering, blistering Val Royeaux to the refuge of Havenvale County and Hunter Fell with a heavy heart. The assistance of the Templar Order seemed more remote than ever. His conversation with the ladies Cassandra, Vivienne, and Miss Cousland was laconic all the way. As they rounded the last sweep of gravel toward Hunter Fell he was surprised to find Sister Leliana working at either needlepoint or armour repair by the door.

She looked up and smiled her distant smile. “There you are,” she said. “My scouts had nothing hopeful to report. Did you at least leave unharmed?”

“Well,” said Turin. “We did manage that much, at least.”

“Glad am I to hear it. Mr. Trevelyan, if you have the time, there’s someone you should meet.”

“Oh?” Sister Leliana had made a number of unusual introductions since descending upon Hunter Fell. Turin could only guess who she meant to invite this time.

Leliana conducted him to a sitting-room whose existence Turin had not as of yet even suspected. There, poking at the entrance to an intricate ship in a bottle, was a young tow-headed elven woman wearing a peculiar cross between a dress and a patchwork quilt. She jumped when Turin entered, caught the bottle, and deftly set it back in place.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” said Sister Leliana, “Miss Sera. Miss Sera, the Herald of Andraste.”

“Sure they say it,” said the elf. “Here you are, then. Glad to see you’re….” She cocked her head. “You’re kind of plain, really. All that talk, and then you’re just…a person. I mean, it’s all good, innit? The important thing is: you glow? You’re the Herald thingy?”

Turin blinked at the onslaught. At the end, though, he raised his left hand, where the mark slumbered in a dull green glow. “None other, miss.”

“Pshaw. Miss Mistery Madam’s for the top-drawer lot. Keep saying it if it makes you happy.”

Turin applied to Sister Leliana for help; Sister Leliana just shook her head and looked meaningfully at Miss Sera. Turin cleared his throat. “What is it I can help you with, Miss Sera?”

“Not sure yet. My people just said to look at the Inquisition.”

“Your people? Elves?”

“Ha!” she squawked. “No. People people. Name’s Sera. The Friends of Red Jenny, that’s me. Well, I’m one. So is a fence in Montfort, some woman in Kirkwall. There were three in Starkhaven. Brothers or something. It’s just a name, yeah? It lets little people, ‘Friends,’ be part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate. So here, in your face, I’m Sera. ‘The Friends of Red Jenny’ are sort of out there. I can use them to help you.”

Turin was still desperately trying to catch up. “You…hate nobles?”

Miss Sera’s smile turned sly. “Plenty to hate, innit? But your Inquisition wants things normal, means you want more’n the knitting circle can do. Means you need me.”

Whether he in actuality did was a question that, though he had never suspected it until this moment, suddenly seemed very significant. “The Inquisition is almost an army now. Can you add to it?”

She shook her head as if exasperated, a feeling Turin could fully sympathize with. “Here’s how it is. You ‘Important’ people are up here, shoving your cods around. ‘Blah, blah, I’ll crush you. I’ll crush you!” She abruptly switched to squeaking kissing sounds. “‘Oh, crush you.’ Ahem. Then, you’ve got generals and oathbelchers, and sure, you have soldiers. All those helmets, and the littlest thing will set them wrong. So no. I’m not Captain Swordface, all marchy. But if you don’t listen down here too, you risk your breeches. Look, do you need people or not? I want to get everything back to normal. Like you?”

He thought there was a positive sentiment somewhere in there. “An offer of help is always welcome. You and your friends, if you’re willing.” 

“Yes! Get in good before you’re too big to like.” Her smile was crooked, much like the rest of her, but bright as it was honest. “Just you wait, Herald. This will be grand.”

***

Fionne woke in a cold sweat. The draft from the garden door of her elegantly appointed little room was overwhelming. The images in her head were all the more so.

She was no stranger to nightmares. The taint of the Warden Joining had haunted her nights for eleven years, sometimes waking her, more often leaving her tossing and twisting at the centre of dreams she could not escape. It had been less bad since the archdemon’s death, ten years ago. Less bad but still there, still her faithful companion in the night.

She did not want companionship in the night, but that was not a matter in which she had any say.

It was worse tonight. Had been worse for three nights running now. She would have been foolish to dismiss the significance of that change in pain and distress. She would have been foolish, and though in this matter she wanted to be, she could not turn a blind eye.

This was her Calling, the final summons every Grey Warden felt. She sat up and wound a warm white wrapper around herself. If this was the Calling it was twenty years early. Then again, she had been exposed directly to a Blight during the war. Perhaps that shortened her lifespan. Perhaps…she had no answers. Only a sense of finality in that most recent dream, that nightmare vision of the darkness in the depths.

She had always known she would join her fellow wardens in death. But must it be so soon? Having spent years in colourless inertia, why did this have to come now, when she was needed by the world once more? She tried to imagine telling Sister Leliana, telling…telling Mr. Trevelyan, who must certainly be disappointed in her at a time when the Inquisition needed her more than ever.

Stifled by the close air of her chambers, Fionne tucked the chin-to-floor wrapper more tightly around her and slipped outside to the gardens.

She heard someone before she saw him. She stopped in place, overcome by an oppressive sense of dread that stopped her feet from moving. If it was a demon – oh, if it was a demon she had nothing but her own hands to defend her.

But a demon it was not; it was Mr. Trevelyan, still decked out in the clothes of the evening, looking very surprised to see her. “Miss Cousland!” he said, and, seeing something in her eyes, stopped there.

“Oh, Mr. Trevelyan.” She bit her lip rather than let some immodest confession out. “I’ve had dreams. It’s only dreams,” she said, trembling.

He frowned. “A dream should be ashamed of itself, to trouble you. Would you rather stay up and talk?”

Here in only a nightgown and wrapper, far from the comforts of society? Here to admit weakness and not only admit but indulge? No. It was impossible for any number of reasons. “No,” she said. “You are kind to offer. But I should go.”

“Ah. I should let you go,” said Mr. Trevelyan. “Thank you, for a moment’s company at least in an empty hour like this.”

That tugged at her, and she looked at him anew; he seemed hale and self-possessed as ever. Had he ever known real distress? And if so, could he truly hide it? “Surely a man your age cannot have many empty hours.”

He smiled, a little sadly. The expression was out of face on his strong honest features. “I’m trying to avoid them,” he said lightly. “But I have taken enough of your time, Miss Cousland. Good night to you.”

“Good night.” Fionne steeled herself and turned back towards dreams. She had lived with them for eleven years. She would live a little while longer. And would have to, if she was to impart what she knew to the Herald.

***

The introductions went on. Sister Leliana and Lady Josephine were endlessly resourceful – and, it seemed, none too discerning in their recommendations. “Mercenaries?” said Turin. “We’re to recruit mercenaries now?”

“They asked after the Inquisition specifically,” said Lady Josephine. “Bull’s Chargers are well known for their competence. And their courage.”

“I certainly would not object to adding to our forces’ numbers,” said Lady Cassandra. “If they can be disciplined.”

“Something we can only ascertain by meeting with them,” said Sister Leliana.

Turin had a demonstration of their skills considerably earlier than he had expected. He was riding downhill toward the Storm Coast in the direction of the village where the Iron Bull had offered to meet. What he rode into was a pitched battle between two patchwork parties of yelling raiders. One of them started the cry: “Inquisition!” In the absence of better intelligence, Turin pitched in on their side.

And then the fight was over, and a Qunari the size of a small building, wearing a truly resplendent double-breasted blue broadcloth coat, was shaking Turin’s hand. 

The Iron Bull, commander of Bull’s Chargers, turned out to be bluff and businesslike. He named his price and said furthermore that his troops were worth it. He then made the incredible confession that he was an agent for the Ben-Hassrath, the spying arm of the Qunari war body. In his own words, “The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. As for hiding it from something called the Inquisition, you’d find out sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me.”

A mercenary Turin had his doubts about. But a mercenary who could share reports of intelligence from all over southern Thedas, in exchange only for doing what he was going to be doing anyway, fighting the Breach? Turin craned up at the towering war leader. “I believe we can come to an arrangement.”

***

“Mr. Solas!” Fionne stopped in the hallway and pivoted to follow the plain-dressed elf’s movements. “Mr. Solas, what has happened? For surely something must have, to distress you so.”

“This is not the time nor the place, Miss Cousland.” He waved dismissal, but slowed.

“Then let us find one. Truly! What has the Herald said? I assume you were with him.”

“With him! Yes, are not we all? We stand with the chosen of Andraste. The blessed hero sent to save us all!”

“Pray tell…”

Mr. Solas gestured violently. “I proposed that we put more effort into locating whatever it is that tore the Breach open. An artifact of such power cannot be allowed loose.”

“An artifact, responsible? Yet surely it must have been destroyed?”

“The Herald was not. And if he survived, then what else may have escaped the blast?”

“Are Leliana’s scouts investigating?”

“Yes.” Mr. Solas pinched his nose and sighed. “I have that much influence, at least.”

“We respect your opinions, Mr. Solas.”

“You can speak only for yourself in that regard.”

Now Fionne sighed. She could too easily see how the brash Herald might ignore the wisdom of his betters. “He is young.”

“Youth may excuse, but it cannot save. And mark my words, the Inquisition needs to be saved.”

“Are we not on the right track? I know he seems not to listen, but he observes us, all of us. The practice is improving him.” Or so she hoped.

“Too slowly, I fear. Had you heard our conversation I believe you would understand. I have dreamed lives in lost civilizations that would make him weep had he a soul to be moved!”

“I know,” said Fionne, still mentally struggling for a point of commonality. “But have you dreamed of the future?”

Mr. Solas’s jaw tightened in a spasm. “Would I be here,” he said distinctly, “if I did not?”

“Then you and the Herald share a goal.”

“We share nothing, save for the conviction that matters cannot continue as they are.” Mr. Solas drew himself up stiffly and bowed. “Good day, Miss Cousland.”


	9. The Reluctant Gleam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Trevelyan snubs Lady Cassandra and Miss Cousland (the nerve!), darkspawn fail to faze Miss Cousland, Mr. Trevelyan sees something entirely new about Miss Cousland and Miss Cousland in turn receives pointed questions. (Nothing she can’t answer, surely?)

The yard shivered and rang with the clash of steel. Mr. Trevelyan spun and blocked a stroke from Lady Cassandra’s longsword. With a smooth continuation of the motion he turned and didn’t quite parry Fionne’s swing.

She tapped her sabre to his bare hand. “Almost,” she said. Mr. Trevelyan grimaced.

“You would be happier to have your musket,” observed Lady Cassandra.

Mr. Trevelyan adjusted his stance and tempered his expression. “I admit it resolves a number of problems.”

Fionne would agree, but there was an important lesson here. “Never rely on one defense,” she said. “If it fails you…you will find nothing to stand between you and a more than humbling experience.”

“My defense is fully capable,” Mr. Trevelyan said stiffly. He lowered his sword, one of those gestures Fionne had specifically forbidden during their lessons. “Hold. Look.”

The three turned to see Harding jogging up. She made a quick survey of the group and addressed herself to all three as best she could. “Sers. There’s been a disturbance in the camps. Someone has attacked one of Leliana’s people. We’ve restrained him, but…we’ve nowhere to hold him.”

“Room will be made at Hunter Fell,” said Lady Cassandra. “I shall arrange.”

“I should question him,” said Mr. Trevelyan. His attitude was all eagerness. “I should like to speak to the one who has the gall to interfere in our operations.”

“You have not yet mastered this turn,” said Fionne.

His square chin came up sharply, reminding her in no uncertain terms of the difference in their statures. “I am the Herald of Andraste,” he said firmly, “and I am the one needed. There will be time later. I take my leave, ladies.” He bowed, barely, and strode off with Harding.

Fionne found herself looking at Lady Cassandra. Well,” said Fionne, “he does not want for confidence.”

“We do not depend on his schedule,” said Lady Cassandra. “He deserves reproof, whichever one of us may give it.”

“Something tells me,” said Fionne, “that he would not listen.”

“That he should be well-spoken when he wants to be,” said Lady Cassandra, “is a poor sort of virtue.”

But he was not here to defend his virtues, nor anything else. Fionne sheathed her sword. There were reports to take and strategies to lay, regardless of the disposition of the alliance’s youngest representative.

***

The pass led to an Orlesian town of modest repute. Beleaguered by rifts, they had sent desperate messengers all the way to Havenvale, and in response Turin and several of his compatriots came in strength of arms. It had become a common sort of errand, repetitive yet still dangerous. 

Miss Cousland, her sword at the ready, slowed and pointed. “Darkspawn? Here?”

“Is that what those things are?” Turin squinted at the figures moving in oddly stilted steps across the valley. He and his party had already braved the worst of the roads, and he had not expected any further resistance before they reached their destination.

Miss Cousland nodded decisively. “Hurlocks. One or two genlocks, that’s rare on the surface. We shall have to find the path they took and block it.”

“How are we to find that in a wilderness like this?”

She touched her nose. “I can sense them.”

Her rare moments of levity sounded much like this, and he would have paid dearly to see some hint of a smile or other indication that she didn’t mean it. However, she readied her sabre and followed Cassandra on an uneven course down towards where the darkspawn prowled.

He hefted his musket and followed.

This time Miss Cousland didn’t wait on Lady Cassandra’s charge. She darted in, swinging her sabre, and relieved a genlock of one of its arms before the creature could even raise a defense. As Turin sighted and fired Miss Cousland danced among her targets, slashing and stabbing, and the last of the hurlocks ran outright rather than face her blade.

Turin shot the monster down. Cassandra and Miss Cousland, after wiping their swords clean, came back to him.

“That was quickly done,” said Lady Cassandra, eyeing Miss Cousland with increased respect.

“I trained for nothing else after I left my parents’ home,” said Miss Cousland. “A Warden fights darkspawn. More than demons, more than rogue mages. More than anything.”

Her arm was hanging just slightly strangely. “You’re all right, Miss Cousland?” 

“Yes. I’m bruised, nothing worse.”

And then he caught a sharp breath. Miss Cousland was smiling at him, a fierce, bright-eyed smile. She said something. Turin scarcely heard it. A thing to behold, indeed. He wondered vaguely how he had ever thought he was getting to know her, prior to this sparkling moment.

“Shall we go on, then?” he said.

“Let’s,” said Lady Cassandra in a voice like a bucket of cold water. Unable to explain why his world had just tilted, Turin continued down the path toward his work. Miss Cousland was with him, and that was a fine thing.

***

The society of Havenvale had its share of prickly personalities, but supper was by and large a civil affair, and disagreements were forgotten in the weekly dance. That above all served to keep Turin’s head above water in all this storm.

Personalities galore, and none of them suited to his original ambition, not only of training, but of attaching. The legendary gentry of Havenvale County was not so easily impressed. Lady Cassandra was impervious to praise, Madame Vivienne dismissive, Sister Leliana unattainable, Lady Josephine more a comforting conversationalist than an equal partner, Miss Sera impossible…but Miss Cousland, ah! Miss Cousland! Lone wanderer in the night! Jealous keeper of a sun’s worth of smiling! She was not so cold as he had first believed. The ice of her eyes could as easily be a sky fretted but not drowned in clouds. Yes, her hard exterior could be broken through, had he the means and the inclination. And if any man had the means, it must be he, the Herald of Andraste. It was decided, then. Miss Fionne Cousland was to be the object, and matrimony to be the aim. 

He was satisfied with the day’s line of thought, and retired to sleep, for once, without further worry.

 

***

 

Expeditions continued, mostly into southern Ferelden. Lady Cassandra and Captain Rutherford laid out a rotation guaranteeing that each participant in the Inquisition spent some time at home and some time spreading the influence of the Inquisition, as well as mapping out Fade rifts for the Herald to dispose of. It was at Lady Josephine’s insistence that they started accepting invitations from the nobility of Orlais – for the Inquisition could not grow without alliances with the outside world, and it could not prevail against the Breach until it had grown. 

The fact of the matter was, Orlais had been increasingly showing interest in the activities of the Inquisition for some weeks. And with interest came the potential for alliances. Thus it was that Fionne found herself in a carriage with Lady Josephine, bound for an Orlesian border town and its attendant estate.

“Are you sure?” said Fionne.

“It will be easy.” Lady Josephine looked Fionne over -- again -- and clucked her tongue. “Your gown, modest but well-made, will send the right message, and the gentility of your upbringing will make it palatable. Must you wear the sword?”

Lady Josephine may as well have asked whether Fionne must continue breathing. “Yes.”

“Very well.” She nodded judiciously. “They will respect you for it. Yes. The Hero of Ferelden will make the perfect impression.”

Fionne winced at the title. “You’ll be there too. Won’t you?”

“Only in your shadow. I can of course assist with negotiations once you have secured an audience with the Marquis. But really, you need only be yourself. Firm, but reasonable. Accustomed to command, but also teamwork. Skilled at cards and also at discreetly eliminating enemies. You don’t need to prove anything, just carry it in your mind. And Orlais will be ours, I know it.”

Fionne sat uneasily in the carriage. She had not had many direct dealings with Josephine Montilyet, and she was more than a little nervous about her continual social coups. Fionne herself had once been a lady and a commander both, but she didn’t have the friendly sparkle, the overwhelming impression of a pleasant stream that would wear down the roughest defiance given only time and charm.

“I hope the countryside has agreed with you,” said Fionne. “Rifts excepted.”

Lady Josephine smiled demurely. “Lady Cassandra’s hospitality was just the thing. Hunter Fell is...colder than Antiva, for one thing. But it is a great convenience to live with so many of the pivotal figures of the Inquisition.”

“Am I a ‘pivotal figure’?”

“Absolutely. The Herald relies upon you. Amid a great many flatterers and fools you are neither. And, I dare say, his gratitude may–”

“Come to naught,” said Fionne. The very thought of the hint made her a little warm, not in the comfortable way. “I have already quite decided that he is not in the way of – that is – it is not a suitable match.” She was powerless to stop either her blush or, apparently, her tongue.

“I see,” Lady Josephine said knowingly. “Whatever is best for the Inquisition, of course.”

“And better for the two of us,” Fionne said hotly. “There are many reasons why a romantic connexion would be a grave liability. Besides, does he not favour you?”

“We talk,” Lady Josephine said airily. “He is a charming conversationalist, but not a serious involvement. Contrast that to his attitude towards you…”

Fionne struggled wildly for her footing. “In the field. Someday he may have to weigh my life against many. How can I ask him to even consider that a choice at all? And in matters of import he is far too proud, too disagreeable...”

“His poise has improved markedly since he came to the county. I judged him more pauper than gentleman when he first rented Ostwick so cheaply, but I believe his association with his betters has done him a great deal of good.”

Something about that troubled Fionne, enough for her to mount a defense. “In combat against a common foe we are not his betters. Only his comrades.”

Lady Josephine gestured a dismissal of all things as tedious as fighting. “I cannot speak to his experience in combat,” she said. “I only know that he is more the gentleman every day.”

“Then let him be,” said Fionne. “Oh, isn’t – um – shall we open the windows? It’s a beautiful day outside, if a little cold.”

“Really? I thought you rather warm there.”

Fionne sat uneasily in the carriage. She had not had many direct dealings with Josephine Montilyet, and it was probably safer that way.


	10. Allies Now, Allies to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new Grey Warden arrives (I was starting to think Miss Cousland didn’t really know any…), Miss Cousland dances with Mr. Trevelyan, and the pursuit of Templars is decided upon as the best course of action.

The courting of Orlesian nobility had gone well, at least their first such outing, and Lady Josephine said that Fionne was not obliged to attend the next one, which was welcome news. Instead the weekly dance was to be held at Hunter Fell; this one was at a changing of the guard, such that all the gentry of the Inquisition were in place together.

Lord Pavus stuck his head into the drawing-room, hours before the dance was to start. “You’ll never guess who I found thrashing demons all by his lonesome,” he said.

“No,” said Miss Cousland, set directly on guard by his poorly suppressed excitement. “I imagine I won’t.”

Lord Pavus looked put out but went on to prattle anyway. “None other than a Grey Warden by the name of Blackwall. Do you know him?”

“Blackwall? Only by reputation.” And what she had heard was heartening. The man had been recruiting in the frontiers of Ferelden for years even before Fionne joined the Wardens and first heard his name. His presence could only be a boon to the Inquisition’s efforts. She set aside her musket and its oiling rag. “Is he here?”

“Quite. I plucked him out of a pile of demons at the edge of the county not six hours ago. He didn’t want to come with me but I told him, given our urgent need for forces, that he had no choice.”

“Did he make the pile himself?”

“And was adding to it every second when I sailed in. Really, you Grey Wardens are the best proof against demons I’ve ever met. I’m very much relieved you’re on our side.” Lord Pavus moved out of the passageway and beckoned to someone behind him.

That someone proved to be a solidly built man with deep-set blue eyes and a brown beard combed to two points. He walked into the room and stopped dead, staring at Fionne with a look she didn’t like at all. It struck her with a foreboding out of all proportion to his stolid presence.

“Miss Cousland, isn’t it?” he said steadily, and bowed, giving an impression of the smallest effort of great strength. “Lord Pavus said you would be here.”

“Yes.” She stood so that at least one of them was looking polite. “I take it you’re Mr. Blackwall.”

“Yes. One Warden always knows another, no?” He seemed to shiver. “I didn’t mean to presume on anyone’s hospitality. I was just passing through the region when the rift opened. I’ll be on my way now.”

“It isn’t so simple,” said Fionne, privately noting that if he tried to run she would catch him. Large he was, but unstoppable? Probably not. “Lady Cassandra will want a look at you. Mr. Blackwall, we are hard pressed for able fighters for the Inquisition. For saving the world. Grey Wardens have a particular interest in that charge, do we not?”

Something there was of determination in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. “None other,” he said. “Though I don’t want to make myself a burden.”

“Piles of demons,” Lord Pavus stressed.

“Perhaps I could do some good here,” Mr. Blackwall allowed. “Without getting in your way.”

“I haven’t the slightest worry on that score, Mr. Blackwall. It’s good to have you.”

His lip twitched slightly, the largest concession to pleasure he seemed about to make. “You’re very kind, Miss Cousland.”

“Come. I’ll have someone help settle you in.” She gave her musket up as a lost cause for the moment. “Thank you, Lord Pavus. We should send you recruiting more often.”

“So you find someone other than charming spies? You should send your sworn brothers to get lost in the woods more often. I think we would all benefit.”

Such was the grace with which Warden Blackwall joined the Inquisition. Fionne supposed she had seen worse.

***

It had been three weeks since Turin had been local for a dance, and he found himself jealously watching Miss Cousland’s movements in the evening. When the party adjourned to the dance hall he put himself at once at Miss Cousland’s elbow.

“Miss Cousland,” he said in a voice pitched for one alone, “may I have this dance?”

“You seem determined,” she said. The faintest corner of a smile turned up while she followed him onto the floor. “You also seem to have a grip on my first dances,” she added calmly.

“You’re a skillful partner,” said Turin. He could say more, far more, but felt it prudent not to. To reveal too much might frighten her away before he had a good start. Above all things she must not find his pursuit untimely or ridiculous.

“How was the Mire?” he inquired instead.

“Full of Avvar, some of them very reasonable. We mapped the rifts for you.” 

Her pause in the middle seemed to be conspicuously glossing over something Turin might want to know, but he had no way of asking her. Instead he went on as expected. “Then I shall be on my way soon. Any more despair demons?”

“Hm.” She nodded with that air that suggested she was seriously thinking about smiling. “None that could dodge lead shot.”

“I should rather like to see you fight one again. You made it into an art.”

“There is no art in putting things to death.”

“Wouldn’t you know it, Warden Blackwall said much the same thing to me yesterday. Have you had the chance to speak with him? I believe you’ve missed him at every turning.”

“The things we have in common as Grey Wardens do not bear polite examination,” she said, seeming to draw the words from a depth of bitterness Turin had not heretofore suspected. “It is enough for me that he knows his duty and does it.”

The surprise demanded a change of tone. “Truly? You don’t believe Grey Wardens flock to their own?”

“If such flocking took place I didn’t participate. I tried, for a time. But it is often dreary company, and I wished to live what life I had left in peace.”

Sorrow didn’t suit her, much though she seemed determined to believe it did. “Then let me apologize for calling down hell upon your retirement,” he said, smiling.

“There’s something to be said for a cause,” she said, finally returning the smallest smile. Her lips expressed so very much with so very little movement. “Perhaps I was selfish to want to keep my time for myself.”

“I cannot ask anything of you that you are not prepared to give.”

“It’s not you I fear. It’s the imperative in the sky. You, I believe, are a gentleman, and would require of me no more than I can give. The Breach...it has no such compunctions. We have yet to see what price it will exact.”

Suddenly, strangely, she squeezed his arm. It was just enough to suggest that there was one price she would not willingly pay. He thrilled to the feeling but did not dare ask her about it. Instead he swept her around, counting on the steadiness of her eyes to come around right.

“Whatever price it takes we will reclaim from it,” he said firmly. 

“If only it were that simple, Mr. Trevelyan. But I shall preserve you as I can.”

“I view that as an honor.” Curiosity shoved prudence aside in its eagerness for an answer. “But is it me or the mark you are so interested in preserving?”

Her brows drew together in a short silence that was too long. “Yes,” she said, and now not even her eyes smiled.

“I’ve offended you,” he said. “I am sorry.”

“No offense was taken,” she said.

“No fear, no offense…out of curiosity, do I move you to any feeling whatsoever?”

She cast her eyes down. “You are bold,” she murmured, unsmiling.

Well, it was something, some small encouragement. “Good lady, is that a problem?”

She blinked rapidly and turned her head away, and said nothing further until they parted ways after the end of the dance. Such modesty was startling in this direct, incisive woman, but he took it for what it was: not a dismissal, but a request for a sensitive touch. How becoming in a woman! He could provide delicacy, a certain discretion in affairs of the heart. No one would do better.

He fell to conversation with Lord Pavus and the Iron Bull, and for all that one was a native of Tevinter and the other one of the qunari, they seemed to find plenty to talk about. It was a pleasant removal from the concerns of a woman he could not read, and who, despite the closeness of their association, did not want him to.

***

 

Turin limped into the strategy meeting. Miss Cousland traditionally went easy on him, slowly displaying her hits to explain what she was doing and why, but against some attacks she lashed back with the precision and force truly due a Grey Warden. He had found such an attack that day, and had the bruise under his arm to show for it. He would have been willing to call it a lesson and leave it be had he not had the audience of Warden Blackwall and Madame Vivienne. As it was, it smarted.

Sister Leliana, Captain Rutherford, and Lady Cassandra were already gathered about the big map table in the war room. They fell silent when Turin entered, a circumstance he found more than a little disturbing.

“Well?” he said. “Do we have our next direction? Further into Ferelden, perhaps, in the Avvar wilds? Or more into northern Orlais?”

“We were discussing our options,” said Sister Leliana. “We must keep our eyes on the goal: to gain enough stature to join forces with the Templars or with the apostate mages, so that whichever group chooses to ally with us can help us seal the Breach with you.”

“This is an easy choice,” said Captain Rutherford. “The Order was founded to fight magic!”

Lady Cassandra and Sister Leliana exchanged glances, and it was Leliana who spoke. “We must first convince the Lord Seeker to bring the Templars out of exile.”

Lady Cassandra nodded. “We’ve received word from a knight-recruit. They gather at Therinfal Redoubt.”

The name mean nothing to Turin. “What for?” he said.

“Would that we knew,” said Cassandra. “I cannot believe that Lord Seeker Lucius has withdrawn them from the midst of a struggle so important for any petty cause.”

“And if he has?” said Sister Leliana. “The apostate mages would bargain well for a position at our side – it would lend them legitimacy. Let us not pass up such an opportunity.”

The debate went on. It was, in a way, the one constant of life at Hunter Fell. As Herald of Andraste Turin faced it with the determination that was its due. And so did his advisors.


	11. The Matter of Fitting In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the ladies of the Inquisition turn their attentions to matrimony (so soon?), Warden Blackwall changes the subject (a specialty of his for some reason), Mr. Solas exchanges memories with Miss Cousland (a matter I would pay dearly to see), and Miss Cousland feels guilt over Crestwood, a town she has never before seen.

It was early afternoon and a spell of late-season warmth lay over Hunter Fell. Indoors the ladies of the Inquisition found themselves together in a richly appointed drawing room.

“I thought Captain Rutherford was turned out particularly well today,” said Lady Josephine, deftly running her needlework.

Lady Cassandra colored slightly, a fact that no one in the room could fail to notice. “Captain Rutherford always cares for his appearance,” she said; “but not unduly so.”

“Oh, no, it’s very becoming,” said Lady Josephine.

“I find it surprising that he should be one for appearances in one regard and not another,” said Madame Vivienne. She never stopped playing with a complex sigil glowing in the air before her. “He could save himself a great deal of trouble by admitting that he is aware of his admirers, and that he wants no part of them.”

“He should not have to declare himself so,” Lady Cassandra said hotly.

“Ugh,” said Miss Sera, not looking up from the kitten she was dandling by the fire. “You people. Always with the talking ‘round in circles when you could just tell a man. It’s a wonder anyone ever gets married with all the not-talking you’re doing.”

“Marriage.” Sister Leliana looked up from the letter she was writing. “I don’t imagine there will be one soon. The Herald, perhaps, might be seeking one. He seems to mark you especially, Lady Josephine.” 

Lady Josephine took this declaration in stride. “I believe he marks me because I take the trouble to draw him out. There is no particular attention in it.” She smiled demurely. “But the rest of you, I believe I shall have to put to work. We could marry our way into ten times the Inquisition’s influence tomorrow if you but place yourselves in my hands.”

“I beg you not to,” said Fionne with feeling. “I was betrothed once. I could never invite that attachment again.” She had never wanted to. She, she knew, never would.

Miss Sera brightened. “Broken engagement, huh? Always a good story. Was he mean? Or crazy? Or already married?”

“No. Only heroic.”

“Pfagh. Laced up tight as you, then?”

Fionne had no way of expressing how laced-up or -down they might have been. It was long years ago, when they both were young. He had had humour like the sun had warmth, and it had not always been entirely proper. She had loved him for it. ”I believe he would have liked your sense of humour.”

“Oh.” The tow-headed elf gave that a moment’s startled consideration. “Why can’t we have more like that?”

Because no one of Alistair’s worthiness would walk Thedas again. It was as simple, and as final, as that.

Madame Vivienne sighed. “Has anyone spoken with the latest trader from Orlais? I can’t imagine how he means to sell those dreadful hats of his.”

“They’re very fashionable,” said Lady Josephine.

“In Val Rochel, maybe,” said Vivienne, turning her exquisite nose up. “I prefer to believe that we’re more civilized than that here.”

The conversation eddied away. The talk of marriage did not come up again, which must have been of material relief to at least two women in the room.

***

At the weekly dance Fionne kept herself near the wall. When Mr. Trevelyan was away she largely stayed off the dance floor, a circumstance she found perfectly acceptable. It was one thing to show politeness to the Herald whose newfound abilities were saving them all. It would be quite another to start frolicking with anyone who asked.

Lady Josephine, with a final affectionate wave, flitted from her side. Fionne found herself next to Warden Blackwall, the dark-haired man whom Lord Pavus had brought in.

He nodded without making eye contact. “Miss Cousland.”

“Mr. Blackwall. I had hoped we could talk.”

He shifted his weight, looking as though he wished he were elsewhere. “What about?” said he.

“Walk with me. How is the order in Ferelden?”

“I wouldn’t rightly know,” said the bearded man. He followed at her shoulder as she started around the room in the space behind dance spectators. ”I mostly keep to the outlands, recruiting.”

“So I heard back when we were rebuilding the order.”

“It’s a life.” And then, gruffly, “How’s your sabre treating you? I know a thing or two about reforging from dross if you’re ever unhappy with it.”

“Thank you,” she said, somewhat thrown off by the abruptness of the offer. “My sword was balanced by the Queen’s own smith. It serves me well.”

“A weapon like that will take you far. The only thing it can’t do is make one presentable in society, but you seem to succeed in that regardless.”

“I have some training in it.” He, obviously, didn’t. “I hope the Lady Cassandra’s lodgings are not too uncomfortable for you.”

“It’s not a camp in the woods. Whether that’s an advantage depends on your taste.”

Fionne had experienced the trials of field work along with the associated exercise, exploration, and sight-seeing. So too had she experienced the safety and warmth of home. She could comprehend missing either one. “Come to the field with me. There are rifts galore out there that need closing, and that means they need fighters. You don’t have to stay on guard here at Hunter Fell if you don’t want to.”

“Someone needs to see to the house,” he murmured. “And it’s probably wise to have a Grey Warden in both locations, home and afield.”

“Ah. You have a point, Mr. Blackwall.”

He nodded jerkily. Moments later he said “That’s enough atmosphere for me. Good night, Miss Cousland.” And he turned and fled, awkwardly bumping into people every step of the way.

Fionne stared after him. She had not even had the chance to talk about her Calling. Perhaps it was a relief that she would not need to find the words. “How peculiar,” she said under her breath. He lacked the easy grace that marked so many members of the Inquisition, and was alternately too loud and too quiet, too vague and too blunt. She supposed such a personality was exactly the type to stay out in the hinterlands, finding talent and sending it on its way rather than accepting genteel hospitality. It was just very odd. In the interest of politeness she resolved to think no more of it.

***

While Mr. Trevelyan and picked parties of support ventured into the Hinterlands and the neighbourhood of Redcliffe, Mr. Solas proposed an expedition to the west to locate more ancient elven artifacts and activate their Veil-strengthening powers. It was agreed that Fionne should accompany him; Mr. Solas seemed so respectable that no additional supervision was deemed necessary.

Still, she felt ill at ease as they rode on the narrow road that wended into the southwestern forest. “I am no scholar,” she began hesitantly.

“Your accomplishments lie in other pursuits, Miss Cousland,” said Solas. “That is no cause for shame.”

“I only hope I can be of some use to you on this expedition. Without demons to force the issue.”

“The further we travel from the Breach the less likely demonic presence will be. I need only reach these artifacts to help strengthen the Veil. It is not an arduous task. Your presence is more to mollify Lady Cassandra’s concerns than to oppose a real expected threat.”

“Then perhaps I should hope to be useless.” She chewed on that for a minute or two and couldn’t find a way to make it palatable. “Can’t I at least carry something for you?”

“Do I look so old?” he said mildly, with only the faintest hint of a smile.

“I meant no offense.”

“I took none.” He scanned the horizon, allowing a silence she might have found difficult with anyone else, and in time nodded ever so slightly. “You prefer this to the tasks of leadership, to which you would be fully qualified.”

“Me? Not the gathering we have? What has my leadership brought anyone anything but grief?” It raised old questions, phantoms she had long since learned not to see. “I assisted the man who redeemed Thedas from the Blight. I think he would have succeeded without me. As it is I only saw him to his death.” She looked to the uneven horizon, and found no solace there. 

“So I have heard,” said Mr. Solas. “And if I were to sleep in Denerim and step into the Fade, what would I see there?”

Her heart lay leaden in her breast. “I don’t know. Truly.”

“Spirits react to the emotions of people in the real world. They will remember you, and your Warden. The moment of sacrifice must blaze for miles. And for decades, if not longer.”

“Then perhaps you might see him,” said Fionne. “As I saw him, perhaps. Maybe that was saved, in a place I cannot see it. I wonder whether that is the Maker’s idea of kindness?”

“You answer to the Maker, then?”

“Who doesn’t?” said Fionne.

Mr. Solas made a small and unidentifiable noise. “You are asking an elf.”

“Oh.” Her indiscretion crashed into her thoughts as no word Mr. Solas had yet said could. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you really?”

“Well…yes,” she said, flustered. “It was not my intent to erase you.”

“How many would say that in your place?” Solas reached into his pocket and produced a small watch of dull patina. He checked it with keen interest.

I've noticed your watch before,” said Fionne. “It's very distinctive.”

“A gift, from an old friend. It runs only in the Fade.”

“But time in the Fade...I mean, from my limited experience...” It obeyed so very few laws, she knew from having been there.

“It plays there, it frolics. It remembers. Only the waking world silences it.”

“That seems very sad.”

Solas tilted his head noncommittally, then rose in his stirrups and looked around. “We are coming into familiar land, at least from my visits in the Fade.” The heath was rocky and purple with heather, the sky above it low and grey but unmarred here by any rifts. “I can tell you of the people who once lived here. Their battle orders were not so unlike your Grey Wardens.”

“Then they must have had something to sharpen themselves on.”

“They did. It was many ages ago, before they came to grief…”

***

 

Crestwood was a long rainy journey into nightmare. The lake in which one of the Fade rifts had opened turned out to be the reservoir of an old dam, and at the bottom of the reservoir…at the bottom was the remains of Old Crestwood, a village that had been drowned during the Blight. It took the combined ingenuity of the Herald’s party, along with veiled hints dropped by Crestwood’s reclusive mayor, to locate the dam’s workings and drain the reservoir to find rift and history beneath.

Now, Fade rift gone, they found that the mayor was the very one who had drowned the village these ten years past. He was gone from the sodden town centre when they returned; so, mission complete, they had nothing left to do but leave.

Fionne rode in silence. She was worried about Mr. Trevelyan and his increasing familiarity. She did not know how best to distance herself from the Herald without losing his confidence and, after all, leaving him vulnerable to his enemies. Therefore she must remain close. Therefore she must act with only the most careful discretion, must silence without discouraging, must…oh, she didn’t have the book of tactics for this war. She could only serve and hope that Mr. Trevelyan could sense her feelings. Or the absence thereof. 

And yet these thoughts were still more welcome than the others that impinged upon her. She urged her horse ahead of Mr. Trevelyan where he rode in conference with Master Tethras and Mr. Solas. “I wish we had never come to this place,” she said.

Lady Cassandra cast her a curious look. “Why not?”

“Seeing what happened here during the Blight. Had I been faster then, had I found a better way…that man drowned his life and the lives of others because I couldn’t stop the Blight in time.”

“You are not to blame for the Blight,” said Lady Cassandra. 

“But I was responsible for its end.” The memories were cursed, the whole past was cursed wherever it touched this story and too many others across Ferelden. “Does that not make me also in part the author of what it did before I managed to stop it?”

“Rubbish! Are you responsible for the murderer you didn’t even know about?”

“Are you saying I am not?”

“Yes. I am.”

Fionne frowned. She sobered. She frowned again. Lady Cassandra was perfect in her conviction, that much was clear. At length Fionne said, “I trust in your judgment. Even if I think it treats me too lightly.”

“You sat alone with guilt too long,” said Cassandra. “I wish I had known to tell you sooner.”

“No. No pity.” Fionne cleared her throat. Yes, she had spent many a lonely year excoriating herself for the forces she could not defeat in time. Honestly, lending her sword and her counsels now seemed like the best chance for atonement she could have asked for. “I’m getting much better, aren’t I?”

“Yes, my friend. You are.”

When Lady Cassandra said “friend,” it was like she had naturally and firmly placed the two of them at home in perfect contentment. Fionne could not find it in herself to argue. They rode on.


	12. At the Sign of the Flaming Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Trevelyan is self-important at worship, the Inquisition seeks allies at Therinfal, and things go terribly wrong. (It’s a demon, isn’t it. Isn’t it! Somehow I guess that he didn’t think to bring me!)

Hunter Fell did not possess a chapel, but the people slowly gathering from all quarters of the map had erected one near the centre of the expanding encampment. Here Turin went whenever he returned from an expedition. It gave him a point of continuity, and set a good example.

Here the autumn’s breeze pushed him on his way, and he found himself following Sister Leliana into the hastily built structure. She kept her hood up and her head bowed, clearly unwilling to speak. She stepped into the shadows at the back of the chapel and kneeled.

Turin himself strode to the front, choosing not to bother the Chantry mother or the other sisters. He needed no confessor or confidant for his few, brisk and businesslike communions with the Maker. He contented himself with the silent witnesses as he kneeled front and center.

Everyone knew that Turin was a godly man. And he had been marked by that favour. And the Chant of Light, at least the famous parts, came easily to his silently moving lips. It was enough.

*

Demons still vexed the roads of Havenvale, but without rifts their numbers did not increase, and those that had avoided the gentry’s initial sweeps could be dealt with piecemeal. So Fionne returned from an expedition one afternoon. Hunter Fell was rapidly expanding into a village: volunteer fighters from the lands the Inquisition had helped, merchants, craftsmen and more were swelling the settlement. Fionne made her way through without pleasantries to find the Herald of Andraste pacing the front hall of Hunter Fell.

“Mr. Trevelyan?” she said. “I did not expect you back here. Is there not an expedition to be made to Therinfal Redoubt?”

“One that I would not essay without you, Miss Cousland.” He smiled that bright, fearless smile that she had grown accustomed to seeing. It meant that Mr. Trevelyan was in good spirits and all was well with the world. “We have six Orlesian nobles ready to break down the doors of Therinfal Redoubt and drag out the Templars to do their duty.”

The thought was enough to tempt a smile almost to Fionne’s lips. She reminded herself not to let it finish the rest of the way. “I shall guard Hunter Fell. Go. Bring your Seeker and your former Templar. And your Orlesian lady. You’ll need them far more than you need me.”

“People respect the Hero of Ferelden,” countered Mr. Trevelyan. “You will be as much value as any ten Orlesians.”

“Tell me one thing, will this be another dinner party? I must recommend Lady Montilyet in my place.”

“If it is, we will eat. Otherwise I think we’ll talk as soldiers do. I could use your experience there as well.”

“Very well.” She didn’t want to argue with Mr. Trevelyan any more than she wanted to encourage him. She could only go where she might do the most good, and at present that seemed to be pacifying the Herald.

She packed her necessaries and let Harding bring her horse around. If there was work to do, Fionne would come prepared.

***

Therinfal was a trap.

Half or more of the Templars left in the keep were corrupted by some sorcery of red lyrium, a circumstance that galvanized Captain Rutherford into a colder, angrier command than Fionne had ever seen from him. The fight led them up to the steps of a chapel…where Lord Seeker Lucius, bitter commander, stood.

And all he said was “At last.”

Mr. Trevelyan stepped forward. “Come,” he said. “There’s no need for us to fight.” Fionne opened her mouth and found that her voice was no longer under her command. She could only watch while the armoured man lurched forward, grabbed Turin’s shoulders, and pulled him in.

It was provocation enough. Fionne raced forward, her bloodied sword before her. Mr. Trevelyan was still fighting. Because if he wasn’t, if he was lost – if he was lost, then so were they all! Her failure of vigilance here might spell doom for the world. Without Turin Trevelyan, no mark, with no mark, no closure to the rifts, to the Breach – without Turin Trevelyan she was already doomed, and with her the rest of the civilized world. All this flashed through her mind almost as quickly as the gesture in which the aging Templar had seized Mr. Trevelyan’s person.

There was a moment that seemed to go on a long time— 

***

Turin rubbed his eyes and stared again. Lord Seeker Lucius was gone. So were both parties’ allies. So, in fact, was the chapel of Therinfal Redoubt. Turin had dropped into a place that was not a place, wavering green. Something was stalking him here, taking faces and layering voices he knew. Talking about him, and not only him but learning him, being him, as if that were a thing that made sense. Why?

He walked forward. It seemed the only thing to do.

All at once he was in a clearing in the road, the chapel road of Havenvale. Gnarled trees ringed around two figures: the unmistakable slim straight Miss Cousland, and a man clutching his left hand – a man built like Turin, only with a black face and glowing green eyes.

She looked at him. “Are you all right?”

The man who was not Turin nodded. “Yes, madam. I have you to thank for that.”

“Hm.” She looked around. “What happened to– oh, no.”

The familiar scene vanished in flames. The voice layered upon voices came back. “I see you. When I’m done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I’ll be you.” 

With nothing to fight and nothing to cling to, Turin pushed onward. “I’ll get back to Therinfal,” he warned out loud. “My allies will not lie idle.”

“Your allies will be my allies,” laughed the voice. “Come. See how glorious Envy’s Inquisition will be, after you die at the hands of the Elder One.”

Still he walked between grimy green-tinged walls. Now they opened a little into a corner of some unfamiliar buildings where three people stood. One of them was the dark-faced false Turin.

“Our enemies have surrendered unconditionally,” said one. “The Inquisition’s strength rivals any kingdom in Thedas,” said another.

The false Turin said “Our reach begins to match my ambition – but we will strive for more.”

“That’s foolishness,” said Turin. “Everyone would know it isn’t me.”

“Denying, trying to reason my weakness. Is that the man you are?”

“You will not have me!” But he stopped now, because the scenery was morphing into a balcony somewhere he did not know. Banners hung upside down from the walls. And the false Turin now waited for Miss Cousland to approach.

“Yes, pet?” he said in that melded assemblage of voices.

Turin watched her in an agony of indecision. Just what sway did this demon have over reality? What if she didn’t understand what was going on? What if she did?

“They have been purged, as you commanded,” she said in a clear cold voice. 

The false Turin raised his hand as if to touch her cheek. She flinched away – without actually moving to stop him. Turin had never seen her so passive. Was she afraid? Resigned? None of this could be true. Then why did she stay her hand, and suffer his? This must be Envy’s fantasy, no part of truth. Nothing that could not be prevented. Miss Cousland would never be so broken.

“Yes,” gloated the demon, “I can be you. Envy. They’ll never tell.”

“They would know!” shouted Turin. The figures vanished. He struggled on.

The second voice there was different. It wandered and weaved, but it promised help against the demon Envy and Turin, disarmed, alone, was in no condition to turn away help. In time, through that exhausting climb through green shadowscapes and laughing figures, he got a little more out of his would-be benefactor: “All of this is Envy: people, places, power. If you keep going, Envy stretches. It takes strength to make more. Being one person is hard. Being many, too many, more and more, and Envy breaks down. You break out.”

He addressed the stranger. “So this, whatever it is, if we keep moving we can tire Envy into submission?”

“Maybe. I hope it helps. It’s more than sitting here waiting to lose your face.”

“Oh,” said Turin. “That it is.”

The other voice, the layered one, shrieked when Turin started up another spectral staircase. “Unfair, unfair! That thing kept you whole, kept you from giving me your shape!”

“You will never have my shape,” said Turin. It had to be true. “You, the other one.”

“Me?” said the small voice. “You can call me Cole.”

“Master Cole.”

“Just Cole.”

“Cole. Can you see outside this? Are my allies in danger?”

“They don’t know. You’re frozen, for now. Blades are still midswing.”

“Then am I safe?”

“Not if Envy tires you before you tire it.” The world flickered and a reedy youth was at Turin’s side. He could see very little of his benefactor thanks to the wide-brimmed hat on the youth’s head. “Keep going up,” he said.

“If I survive this, I am in your debt.”

“I don’t have any pockets to carry the debt in,” Cole said, almost apologetically. “It’s enough to help.”

Envy shrieked and raged, but now Turin was ignoring its little tableaux entirely, focusing purely on forcing it to make new paths with new faces. Its hateful alternate histories were of no interest. Only persistence mattered. The disgust on Miss Cousland’s face in that ephemeral future drove him, perhaps more than it should have. He needed to see her again, if only to be sure that she did not condemn him for the plans of this maniac demon.

Upward, and Turin realized that he was climbing through a replica of Therinfal Redoubt. Was Envy running out of ideas? A poor thing indeed, to be so desperate to copy a real man from a real place. And yet now Turin felt the tension all around, the wavering of poorly anchored clutter in a puppet box. He was almost to the door of the chapel. Almost…

Turin stumbled. He found himself falling forward over a thing, that in a moment’s confusion confirmed itself to be the Lord Seeker and then suddenly was not; that peeled off its armour to reveal a lopsided abomination of eyes and limbs. The Envy demon shrieked and burst through the chapel door, all painful sunlit reality, away from Turin.

And away from his companions, who true to Cole’s prediction seemed to think only an instant had passed. Turin found his eyes drawn irresistibly to Miss Cousland, who he knew must recognize him in the real world.

***

—and then Lord Seeker Lucius’s gesture came complete, Mr. Trevelyan reeled into him, Lucius underwent a horrifying metamorphosis and the thing he became crashed into the chapel.

Mr. Trevelyan turned back toward the others. She could not tell whether he felt the weight of that strange moment in the Lord Seeker’s grip. They faced one another, Mr. Trevelyan and Fionne, and in an instant had exchanged a sentiment so intense, so personal, that they had not the words for it. They looked away rather than facing one another with the weight of realizations made in a drawn-out heartbeat. Neither understood what the other had just seen; but at the bottom of it in each heart, tinged but not distorted, lay a common impulse, and it was not one they knew how to share. Instead they checked their muskets and set about preparing to defeat the demon of Envy.

Once done, it was only natural to take command of the Templars, to demand that they earn their absolution; Sister Leliana was horrified that Turin promised them they could keep their independent charter, but Turin pointed out that the Templars existed for a reason – to prevent the fall of mages, troubles or no troubles – and could not well do that if they were absorbed into the Inquisition. Allies they would be, but not slaves. It was the best victory Turin could ask for.

And he never had to tell anyone what Envy had shown him of future selves.


	13. Matters to be Ended

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen admits a difficult personal matter to Miss Cousland, a spirit acts entirely unlike a demon (isn’t Cole just so?), and the Templars assist Mr. Trevelyan in the matter of closing the Breach. (The sooner the better!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this Monday's post. I will be traveling.

The party gathered with Ser Barris, the ranking Templar amidst the survivors. The matter of transferring three dozen Templars to the distant mountains was no small consideration, and it was quickly settled that Fionne and Captain Rutherford should be the ones to coordinate logistics while Mr. Trevelyan and the others rode on ahead.

Captain Rutherford promptly turned to Fionne. “I need to arrange some things with Ser Barris,” he said.

“I shall help,” said Fionne. “Mr. Trevelyan, I trust you can see our Orlesian friends home.”

Mr. Trevelyan bowed over his horse. “Of course I can. Don’t tarry long here. The sooner we have Templars at the Breach…”

“No other thought occupies my mind.” She waved goodbye and then turned to Captain Rutherford. “What is it you need to manage?”

“Of foremost concern is lyrium. As you know, Templars derive their powers from the regular consumption of lyrium. These men were betrayed by their commanders, given red lyrium in all its corrupting influence. I need to secure a benign supply.” He seemed to falter. “The sooner the better.”

The slightest hesitation from this, her dependable man of action, troubled Fionne deeply. “This bothers you. May I ask why?”

He sighed, not quite meeting her eye. “I myself have stopped taking it. After a career as a Templar from my youth to the present day, I’ve finally stopped. It is one more way to cut ties with the past.” He assessed her face and rushed onward as if to prevent retaliation. “I have already asked Lady Cassandra to relieve me of duty, should I become…” his shoulders hunched in their coat…”unable to execute my responsibilities.”

“Relieve you? Of course not – relieve you! Really! Captain Rutherford, I shall hear nothing of the sort – and neither would Mr. Trevelyan, I’ll wager.”

“He may not get the choice,” Captain Rutherford said tiredly. “Honestly, I had hoped you might be willing to take up the charge in my stead.”

“Only in the direst emergency. But I believe you will prevail without the need for replacement. No doubt Lady Cassandra shares my confidence.”

“Would that I could share in it as well. She has ever supported me in the past…but I know not whether this trust can hold.”

“If she sees what I can see she can only admire you.”

Cullen flushed a decided shade of rose. “That was settled some time ago,” he said. “But come. We have work to do.”

***

Hunter Fell. The Templars stood ready. Only one summit remained and Turin ran it with a firmer hand than usual. Fionne stayed behind, when the advisors scattered.

“I know they don’t like it,” Mr. Trevelyan repeated. “But our operations in the Forbidden Oasis are key to what we are doing elsewhere, and I shall return there once the Breach is dealt with.”

“I am quite aware, Mr. Trevelyan.”

“You disagree as well.” He finally took all the energy gathered around himself after the admittedly high-spirited discussion, and directed it toward Fionne. It had rather the effect of a physical push.

She shook her head. “You are the Herald, and well beyond being directed. You have my recommendation. I cannot force you to act on it.”

“Lady Cassandra would, had she the means. Sister Leliana yet might. After this afternoon, when the Breach is settled….” He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

“May I ask you an impertinent question, Mr. Trevelyan?”

“You may at any time, Miss Cousland.”

“How many years of age have you?”

“Ah.” That quickly hidden expression might have been awareness, either that or just stung pride. “I shall be nine-and-ten this spring.”

And Fionne herself at two-and-thirty. “Maker. You rule this at eighteen. By thirty you will rule the world.”

“I hope the Inquisition has what it was made for by then.”

“I hope so, too. Very much.” Fionne turned away. She was feeling old.

That was when she felt something. An edge of a whisper. On guard at once, she looked around, moving even while she did so to interpose herself between the Herald and the door. Nothing must be allowed to endanger the contemplated business of the afternoon.

But the newcomer, impossibly sitting on the war table as if deposited there by spirits, was just a thin young man in a wide-brimmed hat.

Fionne grasped her sabre. “What is this?”

“A friend,” Mr. Trevelyan said hurriedly, looking as guilty as Fionne had ever seen him. “A, spirit. Sort of.”

“He looks solid enough to me.”

“I’m real,” said the thing. “I became real. Not just a spirit, not anymore.”

Mr. Trevelyan was walking around the table, holding out his hands as if to stop whatever Fionne – or the thing – intended. “Cole helped me in my battle against the Envy demon.”

“No, he didn’t,” Fionne said flatly. “I was there.” And could easily remind him, if his mind had somehow been clouded by this newcomer.

Turin’s young clear brow drew together. “There was…before Lord Seeker Lucius transformed, he trapped me in…inside my own head, for a while, while time barely passed outside. I would not have escaped but for Cole’s help.”

“You think he helped you because you saw things, that none of the rest of us saw, that he says were real. I beg you to consider this from the perspective of a disinterested observer.”

Mr. Trevelyan frowned. “It’s not like that at all. Envy did have me trapped. Cole did help me escape.”

“And what price did he request?” Her mind raced on in spite of herself to the last time she had seen a large number of spirits, away in a distant mage tower, a nightmare of glutted evildoers and dying men.

The thing looked directly at her, or might have under the brim behind the lank yellow hair. “Those were demons hurting the mages,” he said. “I wasn’t there. I would have tried to help.”

“Is that what you’re doing now? Helping?”

“Poisoned gifts, grins self-serving,” he said, seemingly in earnest. And, simply, “If I were desire I’d be prettier.”

She had no answer for that. “Mr. Trevelyan,” she said instead, “have you nothing to say?”

“Only that I believe he has our best interest in mind, as far as the Breach goes.” Turin paused, clearly weighing his words. She wondered whether he knew how impossible it would be to establish trust like this. “He might be a friend beyond that.”

The thing’s wide-brimmed hat bobbed when he nodded. “Spirits can’t hear, too loud, too much at once. The Breach is hurting them. You can stop that.”

“Can and will,” Mr. Trevelyan said decisively. “I invite you to watch, my friend.”

She scowled. “I shall not stop you, Mr. Trevelyan. But if this…being…causes the least trouble, I shall deal with him the way I deal with all demons.”

“I would expect no less of you. But I crave your indulgence in this until such time as he proves himself untrustworthy.” 

“Until such time, then.”

***

One more time. Turin only had to face the Breach in the skies over Havenvale’s blighted chapel one more time. And this time he had allies, a fact that had been of no small comfort in the journey from Therinfal.

Now, with everything in place, the Templars didn’t waste a moment. They rode in full battle regalia, banners streaming, winged helmets shining in the watery autumn sun. They spread out around the blasted site of the chapel and turned their faces toward the roiling green sky.

Lady Cassandra stood tall on her white charger. “Templars! The time has come!”

Beside her, standing, yet with his voice echoing across the ruined scene, Mr. Solas spoke out. “Focus past the Herald! Let his will draw from you!”

Once more Turin raised his marked hand. Once more he willed the breach in the sky to submit to his command; submit, and close.

The green light shot from his hand to the tear nearest the ground. It lashed and glowed. It was there, the connexion, the will to pull and to heal. Turin poured himself into it.

And, with a great deep whump like things finally rightly remembered, the Breach in the sky folded in upon itself, and closed.

Turin sagged, bracing his hands on his knees. Every nerve in his hand was aflame. And yet, the sky was clearing itself of its noxious green. The rift below was no longer in evidence. This was victory. And if it cost him his hand, was that really such a price to pay for the safety of his compatriots, of Thedas?

His flesh kept screaming. People came up around him, clapping his shoulders, congratulating him. Lady Cassandra shook his good hand with a look so warm as to border on tearful. Mr. Solas hung back and nodded at him, smiling.

Miss Cousland pressed to the fore. She looked at the hand he was cradling. “Are you well?” she said.

He could have wept for gratitude, but didn’t. They had an audience. Instead he smiled. “I’ve never been better.”

“Can Mr. Solas see to your hand?”

“I shall ask him. Thank you.”

She nodded. “That was well done.”

“I should hope so.”

She smiled, finally, a small and piercing gesture. Then she was gone. The crowds closed in, and he was glad for their joy.

***

The Inquisition was successful. Mr. Trevelyan was successful. The Breach in the sky, caused by the explosion at the chapel, had been closed.

Many questions were left unanswered, and it was this that fretted Fionne while she returned to her room. What was the mark that had saved them? Was it really a sign of the Maker’s favor, or was it some magic whose cost would come due when they least expected it? Mr. Trevelyan seemed carefree but for the pain the mark obviously inflicted upon him. Would he be so casual when the mark’s origin became clear?

Why could she not just celebrate this victory?

She knew, of course. The great victory of her life had been bound up in the greatest losses of her life, not only her family but her love. She viewed them now as inextricable. A win too easy could only be a prelude to greater heartache. If the mark had taken more from him, maybe she would believe the matter was closed. As it was, however…

How could she wish harm on him, who had never been anything but courteous to her? To be sure, he was brash, impertinent, with all the flaws of the young, but he was at heart a good man. Fionne assured herself that she was at least a good enough judge of character to know that. He had done nothing wrong.

Bad things happened to good people all the time. But maybe this time she could intervene.

How, she did not know, any more than she knew what counterstroke might be headed Mr. Trevelyan’s way. She only knew that, as she had chosen to help the Inquisition against the Breach, she would help Mr. Trevelyan against its consequences. No one would fault her. The other natives of Havenvale would almost certainly help as well. The past weeks’ ordeal had brought them together like nothing…like nothing Fionne had known since the Blight war.

She had had family then. Not family of blood; that was dead by the treachery of a man who was himself now in the grave. But family of circumstances and, in the end, of true affection. 

She had missed that, terribly. Now, maybe, she was building it again.

And so it was that while she was wary of the future, Fionne could not find it in herself to be afraid.


	14. Matters to Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Havenvale celebrates the assault on the Breach, Mr. Trevelyan attempts to unburden himself to Miss Cousland, and matters escalate in a different direction. (Corypheus. I knew he couldn’t be far behind.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Travel done, here's Wednesday's missed post.

The mood at Hunter Fell was celebratory; the festivities spilled beyond the limits of the grounds through the sprawling campground all around. The fires were stirred to merry sparks. The sky above was grey and wonderful. For once, no metallic gleam of battle dress was in evidence; the men’s waistcoats were shining with silk and safety, and the ladies’ ankles were modestly covered without the hint of weaponry stiffening petticoats. All was well.

Turin was not immune to the swell of spirits that animated everyone in and around Hunter Fell. Truly, his work had granted them the safety no one had known for all these long weeks. He drank deep of sweet wines and gladly took the congratulations and cheers of the villagers.

And, in this moment of victory, he turned his thoughts to his next goal.

Miss Cousland was in the drawing room with Lady Cassandra and a few other Inquisition staff, the ones inclined more toward quiet reflection than noisy celebration. That reserve she held at all times didn’t yield for parties, it seemed. Well, he would just have to draw her out. On a night like this anything was possible.

He waved to the room and did his best to look casual as he moved to Miss Cousland’s side. “Miss Cousland,” he said in a discreet murmur. “I had hoped we could talk.”

She took his measure with her eyes. “I confess I had the same thought,” she said, a little too coolly for his comfort. “Here is too public a place.”

Then did she have something to say in private? Curiosity completely piqued now he stood ready, not only to confess the adventure of the envy demon, but also to hear whatever it was she had to say. 

“I believe every room in this house is full with revelers,” said Turin. “The garden, perhaps?”

“The chapel road,” suggested Miss Cousland. “We can inspect the trebuchets.”

“As you wish.” The sound of ‘we’ in her voice held promise. He intended to see it through.

She seemed to cast him a great many rotten-ice looks as they set down the road together. Was it softened a little from when he had met her? He thought he fancied so. The thought gave him courage.

“I regret that I could not be of help today,” she said at last.

“What? Whatever for? The task was done, that’s the main thing. I rely on you for a great deal; give me this one matter to address myself.”

“Ah.” There was a slight softening about her eyes when she definitely wasn’t smiling. “Very well, I shall yield you this.” And, more softly, “You did well. I am glad it seems to have cost you so little.”

“Apart from still having the mark? I suppose I did get off easy.” This seemed as propitious a time as any to begin. “So I must speak my mind. I flatter myself that I may have earned your respect over the past months. Believe me when I say that the necessary courage for what I have accomplished is supported in no small part by your unwavering dedication.” He stopped and frowned, finding himself so nervous he was lost in perplexity. “My efforts are not the point. This dedication– Miss Cousland–”

The softness about her eyes was gone. She was looking up, past his shoulder, her thoughts obviously elsewhere. What was wrong with her? Had he done something wrong, to earn such a dismissal? Or was it one of her grimmer moods, lamentably timed?

“Mr. Trevelyan,” Miss Cousland said sharply. He shut his mouth. “Look.”

He turned. Lights were moving over the arm of the south mountain.

They were creeping down the snow, winking amidst the scattered trees. There were dozens of them now, distant flames. They were torches, surely, but whose they were and why they were there was a blank mystery to Turin.

“Let us return to Hunter Fell,” he said, unable to hide the strain in his voice. Miss Cousland nodded and walked beside him, faster now.

The Templars had to be roused from their revelry, a duty Turin regretted, for he knew as well as they did what danger they had just been delivered from. Miss Cousland left his side to gather the other agents of the Inquisition, and Captain Rutherford’s fighters as well. The thought that these newcomers might be benign came to him late and was dismissed out of hand. 

Lord Pavus came galloping up the south road, all out of breath, his hair flying in black disarray, to confirm all suspicion. “Attack,” he shouted. “Prepare yourselves. Attack!”

Miss Cousland ran to take his foaming horse’s reins. “Who are they?”

“Mages,” he said. “Apostates of some sort. Perhaps Venatori. I’ve heard of them. My correspondence with the north is full of little else these days. But who they serve, and what they want...?”

“They must bring answers,” said Turin. “They must have demands, have something.”

“If they had any manners, I agree,” said Lord Pavus. “But in case they don’t, let’s prepare for the worst.”

They gathered at Hunter Fell’s south gate. The Templars had already taken to the forest and had closed with the leading mages in a long rumbling line of shouts and heavy blows. No one offered truce. No one offered demands.

The Havenvale populace stared.

“There are too many,” said Captain Rutherford, voicing the concern they all felt. “We must control the battlefield as long as we can. But the civilians will have to be evacuated.”

“The roads will not be safe,” said Lady Cassandra. Somehow already she had her steel bonnet on and her painted shield at the ready.

“There is a passage from the chapel’s basement,” said Sister Leliana. She wore no concession to the requirements of war but a double-barreled musket. Nevertheless, in the tense atmosphere, she radiated some power that Turin would go to great lengths to see directed in his favour. “Mother Justinia told me about it years ago. It may be our best chance at evacuating everyone.” 

“Then let us act,” said Captain Rutherford. 

“I shall hold the line,” Cassandra said, her tone and bearing defiant against someone or something.

Captain Rutherford hesitated, then nodded assent. “Miss Cousland, can I count on you to lead them to safety?”

“I would be of more use fighting,” said Miss Cousland. Turin quietly noted the perfect steadiness and determination of her voice.

“You might yet. We can’t know what’s in those tunnels before the end,” said Captain Rutherford. “I trust you to see to it. Go.”

She nodded once and left in the direction of the camp.

Turin prepared his musket. He reflected, with some umbrage taken, that now that the Breach was sealed and his mark’s purpose fulfilled, he was no longer indispensable. But he was the Herald of Andraste still, and that had responsibilities. In truth he could be nowhere else. He had had one victory today; he felt ready to earn another.

“Those trebuchets may get use,” he said. “Controlled avalanches may be our best chance.”

“As controlled as they can be,” said Captain Rutherford. “We’ll have to risk it. Let us defend the walls as we can; once driven from them we’ll retreat past the trebuchets.”

A mage was sprinting straight toward them now. Madame Vivienne stepped forward. “One thing we’re still missing,” she pronounced, strolling forth just as if she were going for an evening walk. “Take him alive,” she sang, and proceeded to obviate the requirement by reaching out, seizing the hooded man in a ring of ice, and dragging him in.

He was pale and ill-favored of face, and he was laughing. Vivienne withdrew the bonds of ice. The man collapsed on his back.

“Whose is this army?” she said in a ringing voice.

The mage chuckled deep in his throat. “The Elder One is here for you! Corypheus...he’ll tear you to pieces.”

Madame Vivienne stepped closer, drawing about herself every impression of a fearsome power. “What is this army? What is his goal?”

“We are the Venatori, and you are the dead. Corypheus is come.”

“Corypheus?” said Master Tethras, from several steps back. “Shit.”

“Master Tethras!” cried Captain Rutherford.

“Sorry. Just stating the facts.” Master Tethras hefted his Bianca and sighed. “Can we make him stop laughing?”

The mage swallowed his laughter at once and surged to his feet, waving one hand in a sudden cloud of red energy.

Vivienne reached out. Ice raced inward to sheath and trap the mage. Vivienne gestured. The ice shattered and with it, the prisoner.

“It will have to be enough,” she said.

Captain Rutherford stayed to command. The others scattered to fight.

***

The thing, the darkspawn thing, part man and part red stone and part wasted flesh that was no ingredient of any natural creature, named itself Corypheus. It sliced through the retreating lines of citizens as though only one thing in all the world existed. It accused Turin of stealing the mark, the...anchor, as it called it.

It called an archdemon to its side. The archdemon was a black dragon made of equal parts flesh and force, and Turin wondered whether Miss Cousland had felt the fear that he was now feeling when she faced her archdemon. Then again, she was a Grey Warden. She was made for this. But the Warden was gone, evacuating Hunter Fell and its environs through a tunnel in the old chapel. She was gone, and he remained, buying them all the time he could before bringing the mountain down on himself and Corypheus both.

He could not ask her to stand with him, even if she were still there. He could not ask her to die.

Instead he stood opposite Corypheus and the archdemon, wondering if this was how it all ended. Behind him loomed the one remaining trebuchet. Before him were only accusations and raving about the throne of the gods. The mark was some critical component to Corypheus, some part of a ritual years in the making. The monster raised a glowing orb and tried to take the mark back – an effort that shot raw pain up Turin’s arm until he wished Corypheus would just take his hand outright. 

Neither participant got their wish. Turin fetched up hard against the trebuchet’s wooden base. Against every screaming objection of muscle and wounded hand he drew his sabre and cut the ropes holding the weapon in place.

The ropes whipped around. The counterweight began to fall. The huge wooden arm rocked upward, and the small boulder thereon arced into the distance, landing in a puff of snow on a wide white expanse.

A white expanse that started moving.

Turin was transfixed, but so was Corypheus. The mountainside loosened and rumbled. Turin recalled himself and scrambled behind the trebuchet. Corypheus cast him one last smouldering glance. Then the archdemon snatched the monstrous malefactor and took to the sky. Turin took one last look at the collapsing mountainside...and ran.

The chapel stood hundreds of yards away. His breath burned and he drove his legs as swiftly as he knew how. The rumble behind him was fast becoming a roar. Boulders, trees, even buildings were being swept up behind him, he knew, and he ran for the passage in the chapel as his only hope of survival.

He ran. He ran. He ran. He fell.


	15. The Inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the world does not, after all, end; Miss Cousland watches for Mr. Trevelyan; the advisors of the Inquisition select an Inquisitor (for once they must put aside their differences); and Mr. Solas recommends the next course of inquiry, regardless of its paucity of clues. (Will cannot substitute for practical knowledge, even for a mage.)

The townspeople clutched coats and rags about themselves and walked along the mountain ridge in mostly silent single file. Fionne herself wore her full unadorned breastplate and steel bonnet, and her gloves were thin enough to make handling her musket possible at a moment’s notice. She would not relax her readiness for anything.

“How far is it? Do you know?” she said, struggling to make herself heard over the moaning of the wind.

Mr. Solas pointed. “Were it not for the snow being blown we would see it already. It is still within Havenvale’s borders, if only barely.”

“And you saw this in your travels in the Fade?”

“I passed north of here many years ago. The abandoned castle stayed with me.”

“Very well.” Fionne hugged herself. It did not lessen the chill of this cheerless morning. “I’m going back to the rear guard. In case…”

“Your watchfulness does you credit,” said Mr. Solas, “but we are traveling slowly enough with our wounded. He will surely catch up if he escaped the avalanche.”

“And when he does I shall greet him,” Fionne said stubbornly.

She didn’t really believe it, though. Turin Trevelyan was dead. Dead, alone, in the merciless snows, sacrificed so that others could live. Was this to be the price of their victory at the Breach, then? She had prayed for it not to be. How could one so young and vigorous be so rapidly cut down? And where would she find another such apprentice? 

The last thing Fionne had offered him was criticism.

She turned her steps next to Captain Rutherford. “Why,” she said, “do I hear so many whispers of an archdemon?”

“Corypheus came with one,” said Captain Rutherford. “I saw it myself. A twisted creature, unnatural. Unlike any I’ve seen.”

The implications of her Calling slammed into place. If it was not her time, but was the effect of an archdemon rising once again…and yet that made no sense. “That cannot be. I would have felt its presence. Grey Wardens have that power. Especially against an archdemon.”

“I can only report what I saw,” said Captain Rutherford. “Corypheus himself is a darkspawn, a powerful one. The thing with him could only be more of the same.”

“Then I should have been there to face it.” 

“You brought us through the tunnel safely. That is honour enough, Miss Cousland.”

“It is not where I should have been, if an archdemon was afoot.”

“We could not have defeated it from Hunter Fell,” Captain Rutherford said decisively. “And I think it would have done us little credit to try such a desperate venture. Evacuation was our only chance.”

“A chance for all of us except Mr. Trevelyan, hm?”

Captain Rutherford’s scarred lip tightened, and instantly Fionne regretted having baited him. “He volunteered. When it became clear that Corypheus was there for the mark on his hand, he went forward so the rest of us could escape.”

“He was too young to die like that.”

“All our people are too young to die,” said Captain Rutherford. “But die they do, when circumstance turns against us.”

The thought added no light to the snow-swarmed day. “I pray we never grow accustomed to that.”

Captain Rutherford cast her a compassionate glance, but said no more. She fell back now, drawing curious looks from those of the Inquisition who had the spirit to notice things around them. The exodus was churning up the squeaking-cold snow, leaving grime and discarded possessions all along the way. Fionne clutched her coat about her and pressed toward the back of the line without regard for her muddying skirts. Mr. Solas had the leadership ahead. Her responsibility dragged her behind. 

It was responsibility that bound her to Mr. Trevelyan. No more. And no less.

Behind the last villager, struggling to keep a handcart steady in the hard-packed remnants of snow on the path, Fionne paused, looking up at the long and straggling line. Hunter Fell and its environs had evacuated in good order, and she was proud of them. She could only hope Mr. Solas’s guidance would lead them somewhere better. Better and more defensible.

She was far into the empty expanse of trampled snow. Her musket tapped relentlessly at her back with every step. The wind drowned out any sound of the party behind her; she may as well have been in these mountains alone. The sky above was grey – grey, no worse, thanks to the person she now sought – and the blowing snow went on without remittance. She lit a torch and continued on her way, sweeping the light to and fro. The flames only served to emphasize the cold outside the torch’s limited influence. But if she suffered from the cold here, how much more must Mr. Trevelyan be…?

Something moved. Half covered in snow, but it was in the shape of a man. Fionne’s heart leaped as if to touch the stars. She lifted her skirts and began bounding toward him. Even as she approached he faltered and fell to hands and knees. Fionne ran to his side and, in a sudden frenzy of need to do something, began pulling off her coat. “Take this,” she said breathlessly.

He didn’t look at her. He spoke in a choked growl. “It wouldn’t fit, Miss Cousland.”

“Oh.” She felt abruptly stupid. “You’re right, of course.”

“Miss Cousland,” he said again.

“Yes?” she said raptly.

Turin Trevelyan lifted his mouth a little clear of his snow-crusted collar. Wind-chapped and weary beyond words, he had never looked so welcome to her eyes. A corner of his mouth twitched upward. “I would not abandon our Inquisition.”

Fionne took his marked hand and spread his arm over her shoulders. The mark flared warmth as though unsatisfied by the act it had been sent to do. But that was a problem for another day. He leaned heavily on her, proof enough that he had been through more than any man should bear. As soon as they had caught up with the last of the train Fionne sent someone running ahead with a few sharp words. Within minutes the refugees staggered to a halt and began to make camp. Fionne let Mr. Trevelyan lean on her shoulder and threaded her way among the tents. His left hand sparked and shone, and caused ripples of whispers wherever they went. People stared openly, talking among themselves as if Fionne and her charge weren’t there. She ignored them until she found where someone had laid out a pavilion for the Inquisition’s central advisors.

Lady Josephine directly ran to assist. Fionne settled Mr. Trevelyan by the fire while Lady Josephine took the blankets that people hurried to offer and tucked them around him as if he were a child. “Tea,” ordered Lady Josephine, and tea was brought. Mr. Trevelyan tried to grip the cup and his fingers wouldn’t quite come together right. A temporary effect, Fionne told herself, watching, and backed off to allow a flustered Lady Josephine to lift the cup to his lips herself.

Much later that night, once she had returned to her acetic bedroll, she finally started to cry. Her relief washed hot over her face, and she was glad that Mr. Trevelyan was alive. Miracles could happen after all, and he was one of them.

***

The advisors of the Inquisition had frequent disagreements. Sister Leliana’s cutthroat deviousness, Captain Rutherford’s blunt militarism, Lady Josephine’s social circus acts, Lady Cassandra’s blustering forwardness, Fionne’s unadorned Fereldanness...sometimes they aligned, and often they did not. It was a delicate balance they tried and sometimes failed to strike. Fionne often wished they could elect a leader and be done with it; but she did not want to be it and did not trust anyone else to do the job. She suspected that everyone else in that circle felt the same.

And then, of a sudden, while they gathered in a drafty side room of their new castle, a leader was suggested.

“He is young,” said Fionne.

“He is very young,” stressed Lady Cassandra.

“He has taken his responsibility well,” said Lady Josephine.

“And he’ll still have us to advise him,” said Captain Rutherford.

“Young and handsome,” said Sister Leliana. “And with a clear sign of Andraste’s favor, added to a return from the dead? We could not invent a better figurehead.”

“He has a little much will for a figurehead,” Fionne said dryly.

“But not, I think, too much to be governed by reason,” insisted Lady Josephine.

“I hope that is the case,” conceded Lady Cassandra.

“Very well,” said Fionne. “Tell him, if you wish.” She wanted a welcome for him upon his return, yes, but this additional honour left her afraid of what might be. “I’m going to see that the men are settling in.”

The other advisors exchanged eloquent looks, but none of them tried to stop her.

***

Turin was walking the yard of this grand new castle, accepting the stares of the Inquisition, when Lady Cassandra found him. She fell into step with a faint air of nervousness.

“Lady Cassandra,” he said with a small bow. “I’m relieved to see the villagers made it safe.”

“I am relieved you are safe,” she countered, toying with her bonnet-strings. “There is something we must discuss.”

“I am at your disposal.”

She half smiled while she led him up the steps overlooking the courtyard. “Your decisions let us heal the sky. Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are that creature’s rival because of what you did. And we know it. All of us. The Inquisition requires a leader: the one who has already been leading it.”

Sister Leliana was approaching. She bore a sabre, shining silver in the sunlight. The coils of a dragon wrapped around its grip and guard.

His heart surged. Truly Andraste’s favor did put him in the right place, here, at the right time, now. His fate had never seemed clearer. “Did you truly all agree to this?” he said.

“All of these people have their lives because of you,” said Lady Cassandra. “They will follow their Inquisitor.”

And people were watching, he realized, in the yard below. Everyone was drifting toward the stairway, their faces turned up, wondering, waiting.

There was one thing to do, the most natural movement in the world. Turin took the sword.

***

“The orb,” Mr. Solas said intently. The central figures of the Inquisition were gathered, perforce standing, in a side room of the castle. The distant sounds of repair echoed in from drafts high above. “Describe it once more.”

“What is there to describe!” Turin caught himself and sighed. “A little smaller than my head, covered in closely spaced curved lines. He imbued it with red energy.”

“Lyrium?” Lady Cassandra said sharply.

“I don’t know,” confessed Turin. “Regardless, he sought to use it to claim the mark on my hand. It failed. The story will not change if I am asked to repeat it again.”

“If emptying your mind takes so little time,” snapped Mr. Solas, “then perhaps we should move on.”

“‘A ritual years in the planning,’” Miss Cousland said loudly, showing that she at least had paid mind to the whole of Turin’s account. “What did he intend? ‘Assaulting the heavens’? And why did it centre on the vale chapel?”

“And how does the archdemon fit?” added Sister Leliana.

Miss Cousland cast her eyes downward, an uncharacteristic wilting. “I regret that I was not there to tell you more,” she said softly. “I defer to Mr. Blackwall’s experience in his capacity as witness, but as the Warden who faced the last archdemon…I should have been there.”

In all that mad night, survival was the most anyone could be asked to do. And she had done more, conveying the villagers to safety. “You were doing what was needed,” said Turin. “We have Mr. Blackwall’s word that it was an archdemon.” The bearded man nodded judiciously. “I pray that we have the means of stopping it this time.”

He realized at once that that was the wrong thing to say. Miss Cousland seemed lanced through with a regret he could not understand, much less soothe. “It will take preparation,” she said, “materials, time.” She finally brought her eyes back up, and the ice in them seemed more brittle than ever. “I shall take responsibility for the archdemon,” she said firmly.

“Not alone,” cried Warden Blackwall, his first words yet in this council. He seemed as taken aback by Miss Cousland’s reaction as Turin himself was. “Take what rank you will, my lady, but know that I’ll serve under it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I pray I never need it.”

“I believe that that orb was elven in origin,” said Mr. Solas. “And as such I take a personal interest in retrieving it, if such a thing be possible.”

“Then we have assignments,” said Turin. “Let us waste no time.”

“We still need to gather forces,” said Lady Cassandra. “We lack the influence and the men and women necessary to bring battle to Corypheus’ Venatori.”

“Then we have no answers,” Mr. Solas said reflectively, “but we can throw more men at it. How comforting.”

And though he hated to leave the gathering at that, Turin could think of nothing more to say.


	16. From Distant Shores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Trevelyan cannot speak to Miss Cousland, a newcomer from Kirkwall fails to impress Mr. Trevelyan, Lady Cassandra’s confidence is shaken (I reserve judgment on this), and Mr. Hawke is cynical at the dinner table (how outré!)

From then on it was impossible to see Miss Cousland alone.

As the Inquisitor Turin finally had the authority to command people to and fro, to impose his will on the doings of the Inquisition. He could do anything, in fact, except engineer a reason to talk to Miss Cousland outside his capacity as Inquisitor. Even as dances grew less common, for there was too much to do to take time for a soiree every week, he grew to cherish what gatherings they did have, for they gave him a few minutes at a time to speak face to face with the principal object of his attentions.

And yet, how could he speak? He babbled as though possessed by a spirit of inanity, unable to voice any but the most general and trite sentiments. They talked about the ongoing repairs and improvements to their adopted castle. They talked about their gathered allies. They talked about the passage of winter. They talked about the amount of lace at ladies’ sleeves this season. They talked about anything except his ardent desire to know her better.

And then, in between, they went to war.

The most important thing was the question of Corypheus: his whereabouts, his intentions, his weaknesses. Sister Leliana’s informants brought nothing. Lady Josephine’s connexions offered only apologies. Captain Rutherford’s forces saw no sign of the remains of the apostate army or its dark commander.

Someone else produced something.

Turin was consulting with his advisors at the war table, now a massive map built into a wide side room in Skyhold. The Inquisition had operations to keep up, alliances to support, resources to gather…and Venatori to hunt. In the midst of all this it was endlessly galling not to have a central pursuit.

He put his hands on the table and dropped his head. “I regret that we have met a dead end with our inquiries.”

A voice came from behind him. “I’m not so sure we have.” Master Tethras was in the doorway, dramatically outlined. He had a knack for that. “I’ve got someone you should meet.”

“Has someone new arrived at Skyhold?” said Turin, somewhat stung that he hadn’t been the first to know.

“A friend,” said Master Tethras. “I thought you could get some benefit out of talking to him. You should be here too, Miss Cousland. No tricks. Only someone you should meet.”

Miss Cousland frowned. “Master Tethras, surely it’s nothing that can’t wait until whoever it is has concluded their business with the Inquisitor.”

“You’ll never know if you don’t go.” Master Tethras grinned and beckoned.

Turin and Miss Cousland followed him.

Master Tethras led them up onto the battlements overlooking the vast western valley. There waited a man, tall, broad of shoulder, well and fashionably armoured, with a dark beard and a certain air of…of something Turin could not place. Dark eyes surveyed both him and Miss Cousland.

Master Tethras bowed with a flourish. “Inquisitor, Miss Cousland...this is Norbert Hawke.”

Hawke bowed in Miss Cousland’s direction and then gave Turin a smaller bow. “Inquisitor. An honor. Miss Cousland. I had no idea such beauty blossomed in so remote a location.”

Turin was speechless. Such familiarity would be a scandal even among people who had the right to talk to her.

“The air here has unpredictable effects,” Miss Cousland said. She had the barest edge of a smile. A smile! For this oaf!

“I may breathe deep, then, and see if anything interesting happens.” The taller man smirked.

“I heard you might have knowledge of Corypheus,” Turin said loudly. “Master Tethras assures me you’ve dirtied your hands with him before in your capacity as Champion of Kirkwall.”

“And survived?” said Miss Cousland. “I’m impressed. Whatever he is, he isn’t easy to fight.”

“With all modesty, I must agree,” said Hawke. “He nearly killed me and a good friend of mine.” Turin didn’t bother trying to think charitably of Hawke’s exaggeration.

“We thought Corypheus was dead,” said Master Tethras. “No pulse, no nothing. If I thought we would have to lock him up again after–”

“Then the next set of unfortunates to come within range of his corruption would have freed him. Again.” Hawke shook his head. “We did all we knew to do, Varric. We could not have predicted that he would cheat.”

“A darkspawn thing that cheats death,” Miss Cousland said thoughtfully.

“If he had wings and a tail I’d call him an archdemon,” said Hawke. “But no, he just leads one about with a string ‘round its neck.”

Turin edged forward, placing himself slightly between Miss Cousland and Hawke. “We must understand more of this before we proceed,” he said firmly. 

“With a Grey Warden on our side we may have a chance,” said Hawke.

Miss Cousland shook her head. “We need more than me. And Ferelden’s order is too young, unblooded. We need the Wardens of Orlais.”

“And if they were answering our letters,” said Master Tethras, “we might get them.”

Hawke cast him a quizzical glance. “What do you mean?”

“All Lady Josephine and Miss Cousland’s efforts to contact the Orlesian Wardens have been met with silence,” said Master Tethras. “I’ve got a betting pool on what exactly is stopping them, but not many people are feeling up to putting down money on it.”

“They are not the only ones who have disappeared,” Hawke said grimly. In concise terms he laid out the story of a Grey Warden, Stroud, who was a friend investigating corruption in the Warden ranks. He had fallen silent for a long time, and Hawke could not say why. The answer was a riddle in itself: Crestwood.

Miss Cousland shuddered. “An ill-fated place. I pray he was far from the dam.”

“Stroud is capable,” said Hawke. “Wardens always are.”

“You flatter me,” she murmured, but her expression had smoothed from its disgust.

“A Warden?” said Hawke, opening his eyes wide in an unconvincing impression of innocence. “You? I know Wardens. With vanishingly few exceptions they’re all old and homely.”

A definite smile. Turin had thawed that smile from its ice. What right did this interloper have to call it forth for himself? “As it happens,” Turin said, “Wardens vary. And so do members of the Inquisition. And we should prepare for a journey to Crestwood, if that is where your Stroud is to be found.”

“I shall make preparations directly,” said Fionne. She cast Hawke a look that Turin would have paid blood to intercept. “Thank you, Mr. Hawke. Your assistance may mean the difference between life and death – for all of us.”

And Turin’s efforts did not? Turin nodded jerkily, first at Master Tethras, then at Hawke. Then, rather than watch Miss Cousland further, he walked away.

Master Tethras caught up with Turin in an empty hallway just outside the privy. “So,” said the dwarf. “You’re not putting Hawke in your will, I take it.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Turin said defensively.

They were interrupted by Lady Cassandra sprinting around the corner, her petticoats flashing in all directions. She skidded to a halt just short of Master Tethras. “You! You knew where Hawke was all along!”

Master Tethras stuck out his chin. “From the start, Seeker.”

She darted in and swung a fist, which Master Tethras dodged. “You conniving little stain!”

Master Tethras’s continual self-possession was gone. “You kidnapped me! You interrogated me! What did you expect?”

All of this was news to Turin. He listened avidly.

“I expected you to tell the truth!” shrieked Lady Cassandra, seeming totally undone. “I told you what was at stake! The troubles themselves hung on what he knew!”

“So I just hand him over on your say-so? ‘It’s all right, Hawke, this zealot isn’t crazy, I promise!’”

“Both of you,” Turin said loudly, before Cassandra could get in another swing. “Remember yourselves.”

Lady Cassandra only shot him a venomous look, one that reminded Turin of just how forceful a woman she was. “We needed someone to lead this Inquisition. Hawke was our only hope. He was the champion of Kirkwall. The mages and Templars respected him. And you,” she turned her raging attention to Master Tethras again, “kept him from us.”

Master Tethras threw up his hands, knocking his artfully undone cravat askew. “The Inquisition has a leader!”

“Hawke would have joined us at the chapel! If anyone could have saved Mother Justinia and the others…”

“He would be dead, too,” said Master Tethras. “And I’ll lay money to that.” With that he stalked away, grumbling to himself.

Turin turned his eyes to Lady Cassandra. “I regret your distress,” he said. “Is this how Master Tethras came to be at Hunter Fell?”

“Yes,” grated Cassandra. “Ugh. I should have explained to him why we needed Hawke.”

He did his best to maintain some grace. “You think that man would serve better than me.”

“I didn’t know you. Hawke was already a prominent figure. He could have coaxed the Templars to reason, and perhaps the mages as well. If only I had taken my own better counsel, had tried harder to persuade instead of grip…this is my fault. Hawke stayed away because of me. I don’t even deserve to be here.”

“I cannot accept that conclusion!” said Turin. “My lady, you did all you could in your pursuit of someone to fill the void in the troubles. No one can fault you for that.”

“He does,” said Lady Cassandra. “I mistreated him, and for what? Just to hear his lies. I believed him. I believed him!”

“Please, calm yourself. You are not to blame, and Hawke is here after all.” Whether he was welcome…well, that was a separate concern. For now he seemed useful, and the Inquisition needed something useful to proceed. “You have always done your best, my lady. I could not ask for more.”

“I can,” she said. “I should go.”

And she did, and Turin had no further comfort for her.

***

Fionne spent the afternoon conferring with Mr. Hawke, a fact that seemed to leave Mr. Trevelyan oddly out of sorts. His emotions signified nothing; Fionne needed answers and Mr. Hawke, between jokes, could provide them. The Corypheus he described was an ancient magister, one of the first, before Tevinter diminished to merely an empire. He had presumed upon the Golden City itself, the Maker’s seat at the heart of the fade.

Every Chantry follower knew the story. The Maker cast out the magisters, and for their sins warped them into darkspawn to scourge the earth. Every Grey Warden was a fight against that original sin.

And Corypheus, a survivor! Twisted to darkspawn himself, yet the intellect, the power undiminished–! It was almost too much to take in. Mr. Hawke was quick to crack charming little jokes when the going got heavy, but he could not make Corypheus less imposing, nor their plight as his enemy less precarious.

Afterwards they adjourned to supper in the grand hall. Fionne took a place at Mr. Hawke’s side; Mr. Trevelyan sat down at her other hand. Lady Josephine seated herself at Mr. Hawke’s far side and struck up lively conversation. Someone so anxious to set people at ease, and a man so willing to be set at ease, made for rapid, facile conversation; so rapid in fact as to nearly leave the remainder of the party behind.

Lady Josephine leaned forward such that others could not fail to hear. “And how are your friends in Kirkwall? You must have made interesting acquaintances there.”

Mr. Hawke smiled brightly. “Oh, yes, the blood of almost everyone who’s anyone in Kirkwall is on my hands,” he said. “Oh, sorry. Was that too honest?” His voice dropped. “Madam, despite the title, Kirkwall has done me no favors. I would much rather hear about you.” 

Fionne, by way of courtesy, lowered her eyes and did not eavesdrop further.


	17. Peering Into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an old friend of Master Tethras’s brings troubling news (Varric? Trouble? No one should be surprised), Mr. Hawke tells Miss Cousland of his family, Mr. Blackwall does not experience the same troubles that Fionne does (well, he has not been a Warden for as long as she), and Master Cole seeks to befriend Miss Cousland.

Hawke should not have been startled to find Master Tethras at the center of a chattering group; he was, however, surprised to see the dwarf’s particular attention to a bright-eyed dwarven woman standing at his side. The tableau was strange enough to merit further investigation, which Hawke set about straightaway.  
“Master Tethras,” said Hawke, “what have I told you about volunteering your friends for imposing sanity on the world?”

“That I should do it at every opportunity?” said Varric. “I mean, more sanity can’t be a bad thing.”

Hawke next addressed himself to the woman standing beside his friend. “Madam, I pray Master Tethras has not been filling your ear overmuch of adventures we haven’t had yet.”

“Oh, I know what those sound like.” The circle was shifting, breaking up; Hawke found himself in a triangle with the two dwarves. “I’m Bianca.”

“And this is Mr. Hawke,” said Master Tethras. “You may have heard of him.”

***

Miss Bianca brought news of a red lyrium smuggling operation that surfaced in the Hinterlands of Ferelden. It was the sort of thing that required quick and decisive action. Hawke doubted that the Inquisitor would voluntarily be of help, but Miss Cousland was more than willing.

The expedition to Valammar of the Deep Roads was sunlit and well-provisioned, a happy combination of factors. Spirits ran high, with Master Tethras providing a steady stream of anecdotes and Miss Bianca contradicting most of them. Her impertinence was greeted only with laughter. And of them, Hawke laughed loudest of all.

Thus to Valammar, and a smuggler’s cut beneath the earth, down to ancient passageways of dark aspect. Of the Deep Roads Hawke had much he could say, all of it too close to the heart to give voice. Yet some matters he felt he could reveal to Miss Cousland. So he tried.

He rode beside her, noting her ease of sitting with her skirts folded out of the way. “My lady, there is a matter of some delicacy I wish…I need to divulge.”

Miss Cousland gave him the startlingly bright little smile she seemed to reserve for him. “Mr. Hawke?”

Could he break that charm? And yet, could he accompany a Grey Warden to the Deep Roads without continuing? “My sister is a Grey Warden,” he blurted.

“Ah,” said Miss Cousland. Her absence of enthusiasm might stem from any number of sources. In a way, no one congratulated Grey Wardens, not after the Blight had ended. He thought he understood why.

Miss Cousland continued with a silent air of either indifference or delicacy, and he thought he knew which. So, steeling his nerve, he continued. “We were in the Deep Roads when darkspawn attacked. She was wounded, poisoned by darkspawn blood. If the Grey Wardens hadn’t found us she would likely have died. Instead, they took her.”

“If I may ask,” she said, “The Deep Roads levy heavy tolls on all travelers. Why did you happen to come there with your sister?”

“It was a business venture. With Master Tethras, actually, though I hold him blameless in the matter. It made my first fortune in Kirkwall.” He had practiced saying that name without a sneer. He was not yet certain whether he succeeded. “It was, if not the greatest mistake of my life, at least the most fertile.”

“The red lyrium,” she said quietly.

“The red lyrium,” he said. “And here we go to seek it again. Could I but wipe it from existence I would do so. As it is I am forced to hunt its flow to the surface world.”

“And avenge yourself upon it, one piece at a time.”

“Ah.” He summoned a smile. “You are quick of perception, Miss Cousland.”

“Then let me use its advantage to say. Your sister may have joined a grim company, but not a senseless one. There are no higher callings than that of the Wardens. Only more glamourous ones.”

“She never cared for glamour at the expense of virtue.”

“I applaud that. The way you talk about her…forgive my asking: Has she…made the final Joining?”

“What? No! I don’t know.” The question caught and throbbed. “She…she disappeared during the troubles. I only delayed my search for her to assist Master Tethras.”

“You know that the Inquisition will lend its scouts if you only ask.”

She said it with the level-toned assurance she said everything with. “You might. The Inquisitor would not.”

“Be not so unkind,” she said, but with a telling pause. “I shall speak with Sister Leliana.”

“I can ask no favours from you.”

“From a certain point of view,” she said, “I grant none. I merely make investments. A Grey Warden makes allies, Mr. Hawke, wherever she goes. It is hard to leave the habit.”

“You make friends, as well.”

She looked startled. She covered it with another, shyer smile. “Mr. Hawke, if that is an offer, I gratefully accept.”

***

Truths learned in the Deep Roads were never pleasant. So Fionne had learned many years ago. Yet the story of Valammar was no chronicle of horrors. Only a tale of a smuggler who had fallen out of her depth. She joined with Master Tethras in sparing Miss Bianca and closing the tunnel that led further into death. The next smuggler who came searching for a connexion to profit would find only scoured stone, and the scattered bodies of darkspawn who had not known to expect a Grey Warden.

“So, Bianca,” said Mr. Hawke, “do you wish to see more of Skyhold?”

“Oh, no,” laughed the dwarven woman. “I’ve got places to be. Somewhere less exciting than here.”

“We could use a good artificer,” said Master Tethras. “Could be fun.”

But the lady continued to demur; and when the road split to the mountains, Miss Bianca took the low road, and the party saw her off with a wave and full bag of feed for her steed. 

Hawke replaced her beside Master Tethras. “Was that all you hoped for, Varric?”

“Less trouble than I usually get into with her,” the dwarf said breezily. “Remind me to tell you about it.”

***

“Mr. Blackwall, I must ask you something.” Fionne had tracked the Grey Warden down to a freshly erected barn beside the stables. So far all their animals were broken down by the arduous journey here, but they could trade for better ones. Could and must, for the Inquisition to consider itself adequately supplied.

Mr. Blackwall gave her that unflappable look, evincing as he always did that air of perfect solidity. “What’s that, Miss Cousland?”

“During Corypheus’s attack on Hunter Fell. You were closer to the action than I was, surely you sensed Corypheus. Did you truly sense an archdemon as well?”

He seemed to think about that a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “I couldn’t describe it, but I knew. Did you feel it where you were?”

“No. Which bothers me. Tell me another thing. Have your dreams changed?”

Another hesitation. “No more than a turn of affairs might account for. You?”

“If an archdemon were active again I would expect so.” She did not say that hers had been nightmares for months now. “Something doesn’t add up here. And it will take a Warden to track it down.”

“I am at your service, of course. Though I may be of more use with my sword in ordinary fights.”

“I do not mean to call you away from service to the Inquisition. Far from it. But I need to know why I didn’t sense the archdemon, and why – judging by your expression – your dreams didn’t change very much when it surfaced. However long ago that was. How long have you been a Warden?”

“About seven years.” The lack of hesitation was striking because it was the first such specimen in this conversation.

“So you are not new to the dreams. This grows more curious by the moment.” She thought about it and had no immediate solution. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwall. This has been helpful.”

“Glad to be of service.” He seemed to put consideration into his next words. “You know where to find me.”

“I shall not impose on you; far from it, I wish to leave you to the work the Inquisition finds. We shall see when Corypheus shows his face again.”

“Then we’ll both fight.” No hesitation there, either.

“And prevail, I have no doubt.” That wasn’t exactly true, but it was the right thing to say. She had said it to Warden trainees over the years, to friends of heart and of circumstances, she could well say it again. She left Mr. Blackwall to his work.

***

When Fionne wasn’t patrolling the countryside, reluctantly appearing at Orlesian balls, or personally coaching Mr. Trevelyan in the ways of war, she was in the yards, training with the fighters of the Inquisition. Now, in the space of preparations for the Western Approach and the Wardens they meant to find there, she slipped out of the councils of war and began sparring with the troops.

She was fighting a youth, impossibly young, younger even than the leader he so clearly worshipped. He wore armour like a man, though, and his swordsmanship was superb.

Having broken away to disengage, she charged back in. He deflected her as easily as though she were a child. She skidded to a stop and turned around. That smooth turn of the shield was something Templars trained. She remembered the first time Warden Alistair had sent her tumbling with it. There were days when that didn’t matter. Then, too, there were days when the thought of him poured in on her like a lake.

“Well done,” she said vaguely, and excused herself from the practice yard. Hardly knowing which way to go, she started down the gravel path back towards the front gate, her sabre dangling uselessly in her hand.

She turned a corner and kept going. Somehow, in the space of a blink, a reedy youth in a wide-brimmed hat was walking beside her.

“Hello,” he said.

Fionne started and struggled to construct a proper sentence. “Cole. I haven’t seen you since Hunter Fell.” 

“Hiding, out of hearing. Lonesomeness better than living lost memories. You didn’t come to see me.”

Who exactly he meant to refer to by this, she wasn’t sure. She had heard, of course, that the spirit-thing had followed them from the vale. Gossip flowed even from so respectable an establishment as Lady Cassandra’s estate. “I’ve been remiss,” she said. “Any guest of the Inquisition deserves a welcome.”

“You talk to keep from thinking. Last touch was no caress, it was pushing, parting, preventing you from helping. It shouldn’t have gone that way. When did he learn to run so fast? What does it say that he wanted, willed it to?”

Fionne’s lips trembled too much for words for one long moment. The feeling that he was crawling in her head was unshakable. “What are you talking about?”

“The pain fades year by year. You fear forgetting. You shouldn’t.” And, earnestly, “I can help.”

“How can you possibly help something that happened ten years ago?”

“I can make you forget. No more autumn moons, no more memories, no–”

Fionne adjusted her bonnet to keep from making a fist. The courtesy might be lost on a demon but it mattered to her. “No. Don’t you dare steal this. Don’t even think of it.”

“You don’t have to hold what can’t hold you in return.”

“Master Cole, I don’t want to talk about this. If you would call yourself gentleman, I implore you to stop.”

“I only want to help.” The silence around them seemed for a moment to thicken. And then, from the corner of her eye, he wasn’t there anymore. Fionne looked around at the silent courtyard. Cole was gone.


	18. News of the Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Hawke’s friend brings grave news, Mr. Trevelyan confronts Miss Cousland over withheld information about the Wardens (is it his right to intervene?), Warden Blackwall receives the news, and Master Cole wonders about Mr. Trevelyan. (As do we all, from time to time.)

Old Crestwood had dried somewhat since their last visit, but it remained a dead waste, bare of the spring’s promise. Fionne was relieved that Mr. Hawke’s map led them well clear of the drowned land and up instead to a smuggler’s cave beyond the village proper.

There, deep in the confines of the earth, in a place that seemed to dirty Fionne’s skirts just for being there, waited a mustachioed man of pleasant countenance. He named himself Stroud.

“Warden-Commander,” he said at once, bowing to Fionne.

“I have not taken that office in a long time,” said Fionne, lowering her musket. “But thank you. What news from your investigation?”

“Bad and worse,” he said bluntly. “When my friend Hawke slew Corypheus, Weisshaupt was happy to put the matter to rest.”

“The Warden headquarters,” Fionne said quietly to Mr. Trevelyan. Mr. Trevelyan shot her an impatient look but did not otherwise object.

“But an archdemon can survive wounds that seem fatal,” Stroud continued. “So it seems with Corypheus. I had not been investigating long when every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

“The Calling?” said Turin. Fionne felt a sudden pang. She had wanted to keep this secret to herself. She certainly didn’t want Mr. Trevelyan to learn like this. But events were running ahead of her again. Perhaps, she reflected, they always had.

“The Calling tells a Warden that the blight will soon claim him,” said Stroud, with admirable composure. “It starts with dreams, then come whispers in his head. The Warden says his farewells and goes to the Deep Roads to meet his death in combat.”

Mr. Trevelyan turned aside. It was hard to ascribe any feeling to his face in the wavering torchlight. “Miss Cousland. Is this true?”

Fionne forced the words from numb lips. “It is, Inquisitor.” 

Now his brow worked in an evident rush of thought – and feeling. “You felt this? And never told me?”

“It was a Grey Warden matter. I had hoped to serve as long as the Blight would let me.” But if it was a false Calling, if everyone was experiencing it because none were truly there yet – then there was hope. Fionne might yet live. She might live. She struggled to suppress her relief at least enough to hear Stroud over the buzzing in her ears.

“If the Wardens fall,” continued Stroud, “who will stand against the next Blight? It is our greatest fear.”

“So Corypheus isn’t controlling them,” said Mr. Hawke. “That’s good. But he’s bluffing them with this Calling and they’re falling for it.”

Stroud nodded. “We must uncover what Corypheus has done and end it. This cannot stand.”

“No. We will not allow it,” said Fionne. “Maker’s breath. To see my brothers and sisters again…they must know that there is hope.”

“Corypheus will not be easy prey,” said Stroud. “He is a magister as well as a darkspawn – and speaks with the voice of the Blight. That is what lets him affect the minds of Wardens, who are themselves tied to the Blight.”

“But we’ve seen it overcome before,” Hawke said decisively. “And we will see it again. Starting with you, my lady.”

Fionne nodded acknowledgment, not trusting her voice.

“I understand,” said Mr. Trevelyan. “Maker’s mercy, Miss Cousland, I wish you had told me.”

To what end? In no polite conversation was there any way to broach such a subject, knowing that it could come to no satisfactory conclusion. “You know now. We can only go forward.”

“We are the only ones who can slay archdemons,” said Stroud. “Without us, the next Blight will consume the world. So yes. We were desperate. Warden-Commander Clarel spoke of a blood magic ritual to prevent all future Blights before we all perished. When I protested this plan as madness, the other Wardens turned on me. If you need to know where they are? I have no answers yet, but your scouts may uncover more than I have. I only know they moved to the west.” 

Here, the reason for Stroud’s hiding. The reason for a great deal more than that. “You don’t believe Clarel’s ritual can work?” said Fionne.

“She means to raise an army of demons with which to hunt the old gods beneath the earth. How much madder can one get?”

“A Warden pays any price,” said Fionne. “Any. But demons are not so easily tamed, and besides I do not believe that we are all dying, not yet. So this time the nearest solution may not be the right one.”

“My lady. Tell me you mean to visit the Western Approach to oppose the rest of the Wardens.”

“Yes,” murmured Mr. Trevelyan. “Please do. An army of demons?”

“Madness and pragmatism trade masks more often than you might think.” Would she have taken that answer eleven years ago during the Blight war? Maybe. “But no. I shall take no drastic action with them until I am certain Corypheus is not behind it. That is all I can promise.”

***

It was a pattern Turin had noticed, that Miss Cousland usually kept to herself around the campfire and retired to her tent early. This night he left the main campfire and went to join her at the solitary one she had made. “Miss Cousland.”

She looked up from a cup of tea. “Mr. Trevelyan. Good evening.”

“Good evening.” He crouched beside her, enjoying the warmth of the fire but keeping his attention on the woman before him. “You could have told me about the Calling.”

“As I said. It was a Grey Warden affair. There was no reason to trouble you.”

“Do you think it troubles me to have some idea of what my closest allies are facing? I could have helped! I could have done…done something.” He cleared his throat and hoped the resulting tone would not frighten her. “Miss Cousland, you have believed yourself to be dying alone before my eyes for – for how long? You didn’t have to face that on your own.”

“I have faced my responsibilities by myself for a long time. Would you have complained in my place?”

“Well…no, but…this is different. I am…that is…it was wrong of you to hide it.” He poured his conviction into the stumbling words. “I am very cross with you, Miss Cousland.”

“You’re cross but you’re alive. There is nothing I would change.”

“Do you feel nothing?” he cried, stung.

She turned up her face toward his. “I am relieved,” she said coolly, “that the Calling was probably false. Is that sufficient for your requirements?”

“You are impossible,” he said, and stood up again. Warden to the core, and cold withal. “I shall disturb you no further.”

“Mr. Trevelyan,” she said. 

“Yes?”

“I was going to tell you.” A small pause, a seeming hitch in her breath. But when her voice came back it was as calm as ever. “But the Inquisitor has his own concerns.”

“I do,” he agreed. “Don’t let it stop you next time.” And he fled the confusion of her presence, his pride dribbling out behind him.

***

Fionne burst into the workshop barn where Mr. Blackwall spent most of his days. “Mr. Blackwall, I have news.”

He turned to her without setting his tools down. Nothing interrupted Warden Blackwall. “What’s that, Miss Cousland?”

“You know I have been experiencing the Calling for weeks. For months, truth be told.”

“Is yours getting worse?”

“No. No, and I believe it will go no further. Every Warden in Orlais felt its call at once. No doubt you were immune because you were in Ferelden. Corypheus is manipulating our link to the Blight somehow. Lying to us using the very language of the taint. That’s what I’ve felt. Not the Calling at all.”

He regarded her in silence for a few moments. “Then it was a trick of Corypheus’s. We have nothing to fear.”

“Nothing we cannot defeat when we catch up with him.”

He half smiled. “Good. What about the others? The Orlesians?”

Fionne gave to him in a few succinct words the plight of the remaining Wardens and their decision to use blood magic to end the Blight once and for all. Mr. Blackwall’s pale eyes got wider and wider as she went.

“This can’t be,” he said. “Fearing the Calling only gives it power, it’s no cause to panic. Or to rush into plans of blood magic.”

“Then we are in agreement. We must stop them at the Western Approach.”

“Aye. The world needs its Grey Wardens – intact, not sacrificed to appease a lie.”

“Thank you. For serving with me, and for never giving a moment’s thought to despair. We do not deal directly often, but believe me, that is due to my faith in you, not any disdain.” Having unburdened herself, she turned away. “Good day, Mr. Blackwall.”

“Miss Cousland – wait.” 

The way he said it made him sound like he was at the bottom of a well, and she at the top, listening. She turned around. “What is it?”

He opened his mouth. Something stirred in his eyes, and she found herself tensing, wondering what it was that moved such a will to hesitation.

He bowed his head, beard brushing between the folds of his cravat. “We’ll stop them,” he said. “In the end, the Wardens can go home again.”

“That they will. All of us.”

His smiles, when they weren’t grim, seemed always a little sad. Perhaps in time Fionne could unravel that. For now she was just glad to have someone to share in good news.

***

Skyhold. It had become a home faster than Turin would have expected. He loved christening each newly repaired room with a few minutes’ inspection and admiration. People watched but did not interfere. While the outlying areas remained in disarray he was free to enjoy the properly refinished zones. The pride of responsibility mounted every day.

“Cole?” said Turin, having stumbled further upstairs than he had meant to. There was something of intention in the shadows. “Are you there?”

“You see me most of the time,” said a voice from everywhere. Cole finally emerged from behind a barrel in the drafty tavern attic. “I’m not used to that.”

“I can see most of my friends when they’re around. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“It’s harder to help when people remember you after.”

“I’ve spotted you down with the wounded in the courtyard. You ease their pain, don’t you? Make it so they don’t feel alone in their last moments. Or in their first moments of coping with an injury.”

“The Inquisition pushes and prickles, people on the edges get hurt. Someone should help them.”

“Which is where you come in.”

“Yes.” Cole hesitated. “You’re so small, self-contained. Nothing hurts you unless you let it. You fears don’t have form, not yet.”

“I’m not walking wounded, no. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. What do you want from me, if not help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I just like to have you around.”

“Oh,” said Cole. “Sometimes empty corners scare you. Are you enough? Are you ever enough?”

Turin felt a little tug, as of someone querying him without saying why. “I have to be,” he said. “It’s as simple as that.”

“You should come here.” He pointed down.

And so, with the thin spirit-creature behind him, Turin descended the stairs into the tavern. People looked at him when he appeared. They always looked at him. Before, when he was the Herald, it was a matter of controversy; now, as Inquisitor, it was near reverence.

“They hope because you’re here,” Cole said quietly. “Believing, bearing up. I can do that for a person at a time. You do it all over. When you think you’re not enough, remember. I’ll try to remind you.”

“Cole?”

“Yes?”

“How do I repay you for what you do? For everyone.”

“You always think it’s a trade, tit for tat. Some things just are.”

People looked at Turin, and in spite of himself he smiled a little and nodded back. When he looked up the stairs, Cole was gone.


	19. Points of Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland withstands Lord Pavus’s onslaught, Mr. Trevelyan uncovers some of Master Tethras’s history, Mr. Hawke has words with Captain Rutherford (Hawke has only two tones, and somehow I doubt this is the pleasant one), Madame Vivienne has a very specific request of Miss Cousland, and Master Cole seeks to be made safe. (Does that mean no more killing frightened people?)

After Mr. Trevelyan had excused himself, citing his duties as Inquisitor, Fionne found herself in a small secondary circle of the open drawing room. The only remaining member of that circle was Lord Pavus.

He, in turn, set down his tea and shot her a knowing look. “Are you certain he ought to be treating with the Fereldan banns without you?”

“He seemed quite self-assured.”

Lord Pavus’s eyes sparkled. “The question stands.”

“My last public appearance before the banns of Ferelden was to announce my own queendom. I doubt I could be of any help.”

“Come along, now, we could at least cheer up the assembly.”

“Which is what matters to you, my lord? Nothing has ever been done by glee that could not be done equally well through sober-minded effort.”

Lord Pavus smirked and raised his voice. “You know, someday, somehow, something, for just one moment, is going to hammer some tiny joy into even your heart. I don’t as a rule rely on miracles but I’d place a wager on that one. What I really don’t know is how you’ll react.”

The gall! Only with effort did Fionne maintain her composure. What an absence of feeling, what a stinging presence of absolute pettiness! She had known a happiness such as most only dreamed of. She had had, in the midst of turmoil beyond Lord Pavus’s experience, found a peace that at once humbled and exalted her. She had known joy. Despite a world falling to pieces, despite loss, despite everything, she had known joy.

And it had died.

She glared at Lord Pavus and his childish claim that he couldn’t imagine how she would react. “Soberly,” she said, and fell silent. 

***

Turin talked business with Master Tethras. And, that being concluded, had drinks served in the drawing room.

“I cannot help but notice,” said Turin, “that you avoid Lady Cassandra during all gatherings.”

The change that came over the dwarf’s face was subtle yet definitive, speaking of wariness and more than a little frustration. “Yes, well. We don’t have the happiest history.”

The conflict displeased him. “Regale me.”

Master Tethras let a long breath out and unwound the tale. It featured a law-abiding dwarven businessman making a living in the ancient city of Kirkwall, living in a space between the black market and the overbearing Merchants’ Guild. His associate, Mr. Hawke, a mostly quiet and generally law-abiding citizen. Then, Master Tethras explained, the catastrophe that started the troubles in unhappy Kirkwall. Hawke and most of his friends scattered to the winds. Master Tethras remained, administering more than one estate. Then, their arrival both too soon and too late, came Lady Cassandra and Sister Leliana, demanding Mr. Hawke’s location with no preamble more than a requirement for his compliance. He gave the ladies his story. It did not satisfy them. 

“Knives were involved,” concluded Master Tethras, “though they menaced the books more than me.”

“Knives! Surely that’s an exaggeration.”

The dwarf gestured. “‘Bout yea long, ivory handle. You may have seen her with it.”

“Maker’s breath. She was stabbing your books?”

“With the definite suggestion that she would be stabbing me if she didn’t need me alive and talking all this much.”

“Master Tethras, that’s barbaric!”

“Mr. Trevelyan, that’s Lady Cassandra Pentaghast when not harnessed into line with saner people. And did I mention she tied me up for the interrogation part?” said Master Tethras.

“Really, I had no idea Lady Cassandra had used you so ill,” said Turin. “But why did you stay with the Inquisition?”

Master Tethras shrugged. “Everybody else seems to be having a good time. Plus, big hole in the sky, bad for business. It doesn’t take a genius to work that out.”

“You have become indispensable. You realize that.”

“And you keep the cellars well stocked around here. I’ve had worse jobs, and that’s the truth.”

***

 

Hawke avoided Captain Rutherford, when he could. Seeing the Knight-Captain of doomed Kirkwall, the very face of the city’s authoritarian monster from before the beginning of the troubles, was difficult.

And yet, reasoned Hawke, how could he prevent a repeat if he said nothing? After days of indecision he finally forced himself to it. He found Captain Rutherford in the war room, counting off tiles on a side table. Hawke cleared his throat.

There it was. The smallest hint of a jump. Did he have a little fear to live with his conscience, then? Perhaps it was an unworthy feeling, but it satisfied Hawke. “Captain Rutherford,” he said.

“Mr. Hawke,” said the Captain with a certain wariness. “Can I help you?”

Hawke choked on his own laughter, but waved away the Captain’s movement to help. “Maker’s breath, man, don’t say things like that. Tell me: are you in command of the Templars here?”

“Only indirectly. Ser Barris is their day-to-day commander.”

Day-to-day, the same as before? “And you hunt many mages, here?”

“Only blood mages on good authority.”

“Ah, yes, good. Authority.” Time to face it. “Does the Inquisitor know what you did to Kirkwall?”

He was a little satisfied to see the spark of pain. “I have...admitted…what happened.”

“How you and your Knight-Commander Meredith oversaw a campaign of terror against every mage in the city? Made the Circle into a house of horrors?”

“I have seen the house of horrors cut both ways,” Captain Rutherford said weightily. “From mages and from Templars. I do not intend to allow either to happen again.”

“Ah, yes. And this world is to be shaped by what you allow.”

“Do you desire a different answer, Mr. Hawke? Were I to change the past, would I do it to please you? I followed my commander, blindly, and other people paid the price. I failed your sister – yes, I knew about her. I failed a great many more than that. I shall do better here. I must, for the sake of others as well as myself.”

“At least you understand that,” said Hawke. “I believe our business is concluded.”

***

“Are you going to wear that breastplate forever, my dear?” said Madame Vivienne. 

Fionne started. The mage they called Madame de Fer rarely initiated conversation with anyone during salons, preferring to let other people snare themselves before she dove for the kill. It was an unsettling habit, to say the least.

“I ask because if you’re going to go dragon- or wyvern-hunting any time soon you may wish something more substantial.”

“Wyvern-hunting?” Fionne made a brief, definite, and futile effort to recall hearing about wyverns. “When would I do that?”

“Oh, soon,” said Madame Vivienne. “As it happens I require the heart of a snowy wyvern for a project of mine. If you ask the hunt of Mr. Trevelyan he is certain to say yes. I would pay you well for your efforts.”

“Take payment? From you, who have supported the Inquisition for so long? I positively refuse.”

“But the wyvern,” pressed Madame Vivienne. “I have some information on where one might be found.”

“Is it really so specific? The heart of a white wyvern?”

“Yes, my dear, it is.”

“It’s just…an odd request.”

Madame Vivienne pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It’s for someone I care about,” she said slowly. “If that interests you at all.”

Such a confession from such a character was difficult to believe, but Madame Vivienne seemed set upon her request. “Well, I – yes, actually. That does. But I fear I may not be of use. I don’t believe Mr. Trevelyan listens unduly to my requests.”

“He certainly does, and it does you no credit to deny it. When you state an opinion in the war room, that opinion is acted upon.”

“Then he values my counsel, no more.”

“Of course, dear.” Madam Vivienne gestured languidly with her fan. “You will ask?”

Fionne tried to shake off the discomfort of the Orlesian’s insinuations and found she could only manage a polite nod. “Count on it.” 

“Oh, you are a dear.” Madame Vivienne made for the nearest couch, seemingly content to rest until the next interesting conversation happened by.

And Mr. Trevelyan did take Fionne’s request, without even asking the reasons; and a wyvern was found and duly slain; and Madame Vivienne spirited the great stinking heart away; and when she came back, three days later, she had very little to say to anyone.

“I’m sorry,” said Fionne. “I wish we could have done better.”

“My dear, you did everything right. The world simply chose not to cooperate to-day.” Fionne could see the moment when her mask came back up, and self-possessed Madame de Fer was back in full force.

***

“Inquisitor?”

Turin lowered his musket and took his attention from the targets. “Yes, Mr. Solas? What is it?”

“There is a matter standing in the Inquisition that will not long keep.”

Mr. Solas seemed to make a point of testing Turin’s patience and he could not comprehend why. “Is there a way to say that outside a riddle?”

“Not here.” Mr. Solas turned, but pointedly waited until Turin fell in line. He walked in an air of thorough annoyance. What demand did the apostate have now? That he accepted the hospitality of the Inquisition was plain; that he contributed anything, beyond his tinkering with pointless artifacts in far-flung regions of the world and demanding Inquisition resources to do it, was uncertain. Yet for now Turin followed.

They came to the rotunda of Skyhold’s great tower, and Master Cole was sitting in the corner, humming tunelessly.

Turin stopped in the doorway. “Cole?”

“There,” Solas said wearily, “I have brought him.”

The youth wavered to his feet. “You have to bind me,” he said without preamble. “You have to bind me so no one else can. Solas won’t do it.”

It was the longest lucid speech Turin had ever heard from him. “Bind…? As a spirit? But are you not…something else, now?”

“Or has he adapted only enough as required to survive?” said Mr. Solas. 

“So.” It was Master Tethras’ voice behind him. Turin moved aside. “Finally got around to asking the big guy, huh?”

“Are you involved with this?” said Turin, bewildered.

“Involved? Only enough to get this.” With a flourish he produced a small bronze amulet. “One Rivaini spirit-binding amulet, acquired to order.”

Cole shot to his feet and strode towards Master Tethras. “Let me see,” he said urgently, and seized the twisted black amulet. He turned to Mr. Solas, abruptly childlike again. “Will you do it? Make me safe, make me never one of theirs.”

“Allow me,” said Mr. Solas, and focused his attention on the little device.

A few moments later, a violent puff of air sent all four participants reeling.

“Something is blocking it,” observed Mr. Solas.

“I can see,” said Cole. “Lessons lacking, leading. Give it back. I can show you where to go.”

Turin was swept along in the current. His concerns at the war table, his indispensable presence in Skyhold, was set for the moment at naught. Redcliffe was the destination, and the party departed posthaste. What they found there was startling: a Templar whom Cole seemed to directly recognize as the one who had killed him.

“What?” said Turin, as intelligently as he could.

“He killed me,” said Cole, more agitated than ever. “He killed me!” His expostulations grew more wild by the moment, drawing the man’s attention. “An apostate mage. He locked me in the dungeon in the Spire, and forgot, and I starved to death.”

“The boy you came through the Fade to help starved to death,” Mr. Solas said firmly. “That boy is not you, and this man did not kill you.”

Master Tethras seemed to have thoughts in a different vein. “He’s entitled to a little revenge,” he said.

“You have a point, Master Tethras,” Turin said slowly. He was lost here. Was vengeance a thing that Cole should learn? Would it make the rest of the jumbled creature fall into place in a way Turin could better understand? At what cost?

Mr. Solas sneered. “And have you any compassion for creatures unlike yourself? Or must one fit oneself into a mould you recognize before you can wish to help it?”

Turin hesitated still further. Letting the spirit kill again, as it had reputedly killed before, was a chilling thought; and yet, if it brought the lost soul closer to humanity, he might become more normal to deal with.

The Templar, in somewhat ratty street clothing, approached. “Can I help you?” he said stiffly.

Everything became very still.

“You don’t remember, do you,” said Cole. “Lyrium after supper, trade a little extra, what no one knows hurts no one knowing…”

“Be calm,” Mr. Solas said slowly. “Your compassion need not be stained by revenge.”

“I don’t know you,” said the Templar.

“Do you forget all the apostates you lock in dungeons?” said Master Tethras, very calmly.

The Templar’s eyes widened. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

“Cole, do you feel his confusion? And the pain under that? And the shame. Under that.” Mr. Solas was looking at the Templar, intently.

Cole mumbled something Turin did not understand. Everything was still, waiting for the translation. Then he straightened his back. “Forget,” he said, and the Templar staggered back.

Mr. Solas nodded decisively. “I believe we can go.”

“Just like that?” said Turin.

The elf arched a pale brow. “Did you have something to add?”

“Binding. Cole. We came here to clear up the amulet’s problem. Surely now…?”

“Yes,” said Cole. “Tie up the ends so they can’t make me into theirs.”

Mr. Solas nodded and produced the device. With a moment’s concentration he released something, or tied it together; Turin’s senses could see no difference. But the elf nodded once more and handed the amulet to Cole. “Here,” he said.

“Thank you,” Cole said in a small voice.

“Then he won’t become more…person-like?” said Turin.

“He will not need to,” Mr. Solas said calmly.

“Did he not deserve that chance?” said Master Tethras.

Cole hummed. Elf, dwarf, and human exchanged looks, and turned their steps homeward with him.


	20. Allies Become Friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sister Leliana expresses doubt to Miss Cousland, Mr. Solas makes an unusual request (perhaps his first to the Inquisition), Mr. Trevelyan fails to endear himself to his advisors, Miss Sera has words for him anyway, and discussions are had over the suitability of various matches, helped along by Master Tethras’s story of a woman and the Arishok (scandalous, even by Varric’s standards!)

The evening was cool and promised much of stars. Fionne left the chapel and started through the garden only to come upon Sister Leliana. The Chantry sister was in the long mail tunic she had worn since her arrival at Hunter Fell. She looked pensive, and Fionne was loath to interrupt her thoughts; all at once she looked up, eyes gleaming, and the barrier between them was broken.

“Fionne,” she said warmly. “I should have known I would find you here.” 

“She leaves the loft of infinite information,” said Fionne. “Truly, I thought you had been tied to that chair.”

“There is always more to see. More reports, more personnel assignments.” Sister Leliana stopped short. “Always more personnel assignments.”

It required no great effort to divine her thoughts. “There was a problem with one.”

Sister Leliana sighed. “I pulled back many of my scouts after Hunter Fell. I have been rebuilding the network since then…but at times parts of those networks go dark. The assignment is too dangerous. I misjudged from afar.” She shook her head, hard. “When do I save them?” she said. “And when do I send them to die?”

“A proper person of society places the utmost value on the lives of their subordinates,” said Fionne. “And yet, to be too timid is to be vulnerable as a whole. This is the burden of the Inquisition.”

“Then you would kill some to benefit the whole.”

“Not without careful consideration. But yes.” Fionne was thinking of other times and other places. Perhaps the lesson remained the same across the years.

“Do we just let them die and regret it?”

“Is there a more defensible position?”

“Maybe not.” Sister Leliana sighed. “Maybe not.”

Fionne leaned forward and squeezed her hand. “Do you ever regret that I plucked you from the Chantry?”

“Plucked? I threw myself at you. I take full responsibility.” She smiled. “It’s just that choice after choice brought me here…and now I am no longer certain of how to proceed.”

“With care. With compassion. With the knowledge that if our people die, they die for a worthy cause. Believe that, and the rest falls into place.”

“Do you remember praying together?” Leliana said softly. An unseasonable chill lay in the air, and once or twice her breath frosted on its way.

“Many a time,” said Fionne, “no matter where we were on the road. Do you wish to now?”

“It would feel a little more like someone is listening, if you were there.” 

What comfort this was Fionne wasn’t certain, but she was willing to grant it. So they went, and the night held no fears for them.

***

Mr. Solas diverted Fionne on the stairs that wrapped around to the musketry butts. “Miss Cousland,” he said, with the slight bow she had come to expect and appreciate. “There is a matter of import I wish to discuss with you.”

Her regard for the elven rebel – for rebel he could be, were there anything left to rebel against – kept her eager to listen. “Of course. Here?”

“There is no time. Yes.”

“Then please, don’t feel obliged to stand on ceremony.”

“The matter is this: A friend is hurt and in need of help.”

The idea was flattering, but a little confusing, given the chain of influence in Skyhold. “Is this something the Inquisitor can command?”

Mr. Solas’s gravity was perfect, and perfectly indicated his opinion of her impertinence. “I am asking you.”

“I only meant that he has the means and certainly the inclination…oh, dear.” Her certainty was, she reflected, not exactly his. “What did you need?”

“A friend of mine is in danger,” he repeated. “I believe that you, I, and whatever staff we must bring for propriety’s sake, may if we are fortunate be sufficient to resolve the difficulty.”

“You know I am at your disposal, Mr. Solas, and I believe no one would look unkindly on our working together once more, especially in a good cause. I shall notify…ah, who would not be too free with information you yet wish to withhold? Should we alert Sister Leliana?”

“A sensible precaution, Miss Cousland. I shall meet you at the front gate in an hour’s time.” He bowed his head and seemed to hesitate. “Madam, you did not ask. But the friend in question…is a spirit. It is being bound against its will.”

Fionne hesitated, her mind racing to the few occasions on which she had encountered spirits outside the context of a rift. Cole was disquieting; the bound ones had been monstrous. “Can that be undone?”

“I must try. If nothing else, to stop the ones responsible.” He seemed to measure her hesitation. “Miss Cousland, a spirit is true to its nature unless forced astray. A spirit of wisdom may be an enduring friend.”

“Wisdom? I thought that was, with one exception, purely the province of mortals.”

For just a moment she saw Mr. Solas as though weighed down by some old and pressing burden. “More than one exception,” he said. “Come. We must make haste.”

“I shall trust your judgment.”

The journey was swift, as Mr. Solas kept riding ahead and staring at some fixed point in the distance. At last they reached a rocky valley. Activity swarmed in the centre.

And a pride demon reared above the robed jostlers.

She urged her horse up beside Mr. Solas’s. “Is it too late?”

“It may yet be reversed if we stop the summoners. I pray you, be prudent in your fire.”

So she was. Mr. Solas flung bolts of pure spirit energy while Fionne shot. The robed figures finally seemed to realize that they had a problem as deadly as the bound demon amidst them. Human targets never got more tasteful, but she did her duty, and so did her companion.

When it was over, save for the pride demon, Mr. Solas turned his attention to the pillars to which the demon was bound. He seemed to meditate for a long minute. The demon began to diminish in size, and began to emanate a certain glow. Fionne hung back, reticent, while Mr. Solas began his communion with the spirit. The cure was startling but also heartening.

“Was that what you hoped?” she said on the return journey.

Mr. Solas was once again viewing the horizon. “It is safely beyond the Veil. I could have hoped for no better.”

“I’m glad.”

“Thank you, Miss Cousland.”

“You’re welcome.”

He smiled, very slightly, and they continued.

***

“I must insist,” said Lady Cassandra. She leaned over the war table opposite Mr. Trevelyan. Fionne observed from one side, along with a few other advisors.

The difficulty was a matter of strategy in an outlying region outside Orlais. Whether the area was to be pacified with troops, Templars, or diplomacy, was the matter of contention, and everyone at the table seemed to desire a different solution. Lady Cassandra, Captain Rutherford, and Sister Leliana seemed hopelessly at odds. Turin had advocated another alternative from the beginning, and as Captain Rutherford and Lady Cassandra resumed their argument Turin slammed his hand on the table, sending figurines scattering. “My word goes,” he cried. “I am the Inquisitor!”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Does that mean,” pressed Lady Cassandra, “that you will not hear reason?”

“My reason is the one that matters, or had you forgotten?”

It was too much to tolerate. Fionne had warned them. That was before she suspected this streak of tyranny. She swallowed her objections, turned away from the table, and walked out. She was not the only one.

***

“Hey, Inky. I got a report.”

Turin set aside his musket and stepped clear of the range. “You do?”

“Right here.” Miss Sera shoved the packet of neatly aligned papers into his chest. “Here, you might need some help reading it.”

“I really don’t see…”

“No. Hold ‘em like this. Bend it a little, against your thumb. Let ‘em loose, one at a time.” She bent and released a few pages to illustrate. “Here, you try.”

Perplexed, Turin replicated her motion. The pages that flipped by had broad line drawings on them, which as he flipped resolved themselves into a pair of pants, being pulled down over a trunkless person’s bottom, and dropped, leaving only the exposed half-person. The last page was just a boldly drawn bottom with legs.

“Get that?” said Sera. “See? Yeah! Do it again.”

Turin tried, very hard, to think of international politics, treaties, military maneuvers, eldritch powers, and the trappings of polite society in a difficult age. He tried, but it all seemed so, absurdly distant next to the maniac now standing beside him.

He couldn’t stop himself. He laughed.

“Ah, knew you were still breathing somewhere in there. Here. File it with Sister’s stuff. She’ll hate it.”

“Maker’s breath,” he gasped. “I’m planting this now?”

“The Assquisitor should definitely be planting asses. It’s in his name.” 

“Ah. Your logic is unassailable, Miss Sera.”

“Pfagh. What’s sailing got to do with it?”

“You will tell no one.” He had to preserve his dignity, after all.

But Miss Sera only cackled and scampered off.

***

The discussion was on Master Tethras’s latest work, which received more frank reviews than usual because the author was occupied on a distant pursuit.

“It’s really a shame,” Madame Vivienne said languidly. “The match is quite impossible. He’ll never rise to her level.”

“Were I to read it,” Lady Cassandra said, “I imagine that, no matter how unsuitable, there must be a way.” 

“I confess I also have not read these works,” said Fionne. “But can't a man rise above his original circumstances, through hard work and gentlemanly virtue? Would he then be worth considering?”

“Anything is possible,” said Lady Cassandra. “I suppose.”

Madam Vivienne smiled indulgently, evidently secure in the knowledge that she was expert in such matters. “Not everyone is so fortunate as to find a king, Miss Cousland.”

Fionne was speechless. Of all the people, assistance came from the quarter of the Iron Bull. "Knew a woman once who fell in love with the Arishok. That was a surprise, let me tell you."

"Does the Qun even...I mean, I can't imagine it encourages...." Fionne felt at once shy and deathly curious about the laws of his people. Judging by the looks of her compatriots she wasn't the only one.

"Turns out there's room for interpretation. There usually is if you know where to look." Fionne fancied that, for a fraction of a second, he was more thoughtful than usual. "He would never in a million years make her his bride. She didn't even make much of a viddathari, a convert. But she was his guest as long as she wanted to be."

"How eminently practical," said Madame Vivienne, nodding decisively. She wore her bonnet indoors mostly to show off the Orlesian horns on it. "There are worse fates."

"There are rules," Lady Cassandra said. "There are rituals, in a manner of speaking. There are things a man does when he cares for a woman. I cannot abide the thought of giving that up."

"So don't," said the Iron Bull. "You know what you want. That's an attractive quality in itself."

Lady Cassandra blushed. "Really."

"Wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

Fionne was still thinking of the past. A teyrn's daughter would have been a good match for a king, and the past Hero of Ferelden, risen from a condemned Grey Warden recruit, would have been a worthy partner. Yet people would have talked after their long journeys together. She had no way of vouchsafing their conscientious propriety to them. "And what if you do love the best? Is the eminently practical the only recourse you have?"

"Love must find a way, if he returns it," pronounced Lady Cassandra.

"Only a fool would stand waiting for that," said Madame Vivienne.

"Some people have to move the impossible out of the way to get started," said the Iron Bull, shrugging. "Whether that's an obstacle or a warmup is up to you."

"To return to the topic of the unsuitable match," said Fionne, raising her eyes to Lady Cassandra. "Let no one strike two matched hearts asunder. There are dangers enough for you to face together."

"I do not envy you your gift for making everything sound dire," said Madame Vivienne. "It's really a wonder you smile at all."

“I am not insensible to the gentler emotions,” Fionne said, nettled. “I merely keep them in perspective.”

“Then may I never find myself in possession of your perspective,” purred Madame Vivienne. “Come, then. If she is not to have her beloved, will she really settle for the arl?”


	21. Links to the Past, Chains of the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Solas reiterates his commitment to the Inquisition, Captain Rutherford has struggles of a personal nature (oh, I hope it’s not too difficult), a blood magic ritual is faced in the Western Approach, and Miss Cousland does her best to salvage the scraps. (But not pardon, surely.)

It was a fine night and the windows were open in the dance hall. The mood had lightened for this one night, and Fionne appreciated the concession.

“You’re very kind to a spinster,” she said lightly as she stepped into Mr. Solas’s hold.

“You tolerate an old bachelor,” said Mr. Solas with his ambiguous smile. The music started. “I hope you don’t find the age difference too daunting.”

“What’s a few years among friends?” said Fionne. 

Solas smiled again. “Yes, indeed.”

“Truly, I’m glad for a partner. Battle is good and well but there is a certain appeal to the domestic pursuits that I didn’t appreciate when we started this venture.”

“The exercise becomes you.” He turned and swept, an easy movement to match.

“Is the Inquisition still interesting to you, now that the Fade magic seems mostly resolved?”

“I maintain a keen interest in not allowing Corypheus to destroy the world,” he said mildly. “That this began with curiosity about the troubles and then an opportunity to study aspects of the Fade…that was convenient, not consuming.”

“Does all this in Skyhold seem simple to you? After the things you’ve seen in the Fade?”

“‘Simple’ changes with the observer and the time. We have our complexities here. Perhaps more significantly, wherever you are you bring only yourself. So I am here what I could have been there, only now I have the agency to change things.” He sighed as if out of breath. “It could be no other way.”

“Your perspective has been a great help.”

“Has it? It is difficult to tell with one as self-assured as the Inquisitor.” He said it with a peculiar emphasis, as if expressing an old frustration.

“He does,” asserted Fionne. “Magic is as foreign to him as it is to me. Having a navigator is a great help.”

“I am glad to be of service. I pray it is enough.”

***

Fionne walked in on Captain Rutherford throwing something across the room.

“Captain!” she said, dodging the wooden components that bounced across the floor. “What is the matter?”

“What is ever the matter?” he groaned. “Forgive me. You should not have seen that.”

“What is it?” He looked haggard, half crazed, as close to threatening as she had ever seen toward his friends. “Is it the lyrium?”

“None other.” He took a step away from his chair and stopped, leaning heavily on the desk. “I never meant for this to interfere.”

His distress was palpable, filling the room, squeezing out the air. She had nothing with which to combat it. “Is it often like this?”

“Sometimes,” he said, grimacing. And then he wandered into recollections of past times, past pains. Past ordeals as a Templar. Fionne well remembered the torture she had found him in when she was freeing the abomination-infested Circle years ago. Captain Rutherford remembered it, too, in what was clearly agonizing detail. “How can you be the same person after that?” he asked the window, as if hoping to pose the question to something that would not answer back.

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re stronger.”

“You should be questioning what I’ve done,” he said roughly. “I thought this would be better. But these thoughts won’t leave me…how many lives depend on our success? I must be stronger for them. I should be taking it. I should be taking it!”

“Captain Rutherford,” said Fionne.

He unclenched his fists and straightened. “Yes?”

“Acts of courage are never easy. If they were, they wouldn’t be acts of courage.”

They faced one another across a silence. This time the cage she found him in was of a material that she could not open for him. She wished bitterly that she could.

“You think I should go on,” he said slowly.

“I think you can,” she said. “Whether it be to separate yourself from the Templars, from the mages, or simply from a past that you have grown beyond…I cannot say, but you can. And you will. Of this I am certain.”

He sighed. “I shall try.”

Her thoughts strayed to the nearest pillar of support. “Have you discussed this with Lady Cassandra? Does she know?”

“Maker’s breath. Part of me wishes to be honest with her, to let her know my breaking point so she can appoint a replacement, as we agreed. Part of me never wants her to know the depths to which I have sunk. Both in the past, and now.”

“For you she could have nothing but compassion.” Fionne had seen the looks she had sent his way. There was only one explanation, and it was one that could not involve recriminations or accusations.

“I shall do better,” he said. “It’s as simple as that.”

“It would be well for you to remember,” said Fionne. “I have every confidence in you.”

***

The Inquisition’s scouts passed tirelessly to and from the castle, bearing information great and small to the council chamber where Turin and his advisors stood ready to translate that information into action.

Some ephemeral chill, some quickening of anticipation ran through the castle when the scout returned from the far west. It was the Grey Wardens he spoke of, and he had their location.

In the waste known as the Western Approach, the Tevinter ritual tower stood out as a dark smudge in endless ridges of sand. Smoke was rising from its parapets, wavering in the rising heat of the day. Men and women moved across the exposed extension of the broken tower’s base. All of them wore armour marked with the double eagle of the Grey Wardens.

Miss Cousland rode up to within shouting range. “Wardens!” she called. “As one to another I greet you!”

The only reply was a musket shot lashing the sand by her horse’s hooves.

Miss Cousland skittered backwards while Turin took aim. The enemy’s gunmen were few; after Turin, Miss Cousland, Master Tethras had removed four or five, the Wardens in the broken tower seemed to stop trying. Mr. Blackwall insisted on taking the lead behind his shield; Madame Vivienne, her collar wrought up into an elegant shade for her head, rode just behind him, her staff raised. Mr. Hawke and Warden Stroud made their approach next.

The Wardens greeted them all in savage melee combat. Turin was aware of demons roaming in restless circles behind this line of defenders, but his focus had to be on breaking through a set of very determined mortals.

But break through they did. Past the dead Wardens and past the fires, a man in Tevinter robes stood with his knife to the throat of an unresisting Warden. Before him patrolled two rage demons and a barely-cohesive cloud of wraiths.

“There you are! Warden-Commander, was it not?” The Tevinter was smiling broadly at Miss Cousland. “Come to give yourself to the cause?”

“Stop this now,” Miss Cousland replied in tones so loud and cold that Turin wondered why he had ever thought he’d seen her angry before. “What is this? To what purpose?”

“With a demon army we will hunt and destroy the Old Gods,” he said. “Haha. Or do you not believe me?”

His hand moved. Miss Cousland’s shot went far wide of all involved. The Warden at the Tevinter’s hand fell, and the blood spread through the air. Two Wardens in robes stepped forward, shaping it, moving it leisurely now to trace a crackling green portal.

And a hunger demon lumbered through.

“He’s controlling the mages,” warned Madame Vivienne. “They will not come to our side.”

“He wouldn’t have to control them if the destruction of the Old Gods were his real plan,” said Miss Cousland. “Brothers, sisters, I implore you. Do you believe a magister of Tevinter, a Venatori, has our best interests in mind? Do you believe he knows more about the Blight than we do?”

“The Calling is on us,” one shouted through his helmet. “We’re running out of time.”

“You’re being manipulated,” insisted Miss Cousland. “Better to find an answer to this false Calling than to give up in favor of the first plan offered by friends we never had before.”

“What would you know?” called another. “You’re not Warden-Commander anymore. You abandoned us.”

“Never abandon,” she called back with fresh blood in her voice. “Never. I am here for you now.”

“Then get in line,” purred the Tevinter. “Your blood will do nicely.”

“We never will,” bellowed Mr. Blackwall, and charged.

Miss Cousland drew her sabre fought with a fury that terrified Turin. He placed his shots above her, to her sides, but her rapid movements placed her in danger every step of the way. He turned his attentions to the floating demons around the edges of the fight. He felt every frenzied step Miss Cousland took as though she trampled his heart. Just continuing to fire was an ordeal under the oppression of her rage.

And then it was done. All except the Tevinter, who had vanished to leave the Grey Wardens to fight his fight. Turin swept the area with his musket but saw nothing but his own allies, and a few Grey Wardens who raised their hands in surrender.

He let Stroud speak with them. Turin himself walked to where Miss Cousland was standing perfectly still.  
He saw her lips move. As he came closer he finally heard what she was whispering. “Oh, Maker. Oh, Maker.”

“Miss Cousland,” he said. “We won.”

Tears gleamed in her eyes, a sight that cut him to the quick. “How can you say that? My brothers…my brothers and sisters did this. They resorted to blood magic because they had no faith in their own arms. And I was not there to command them otherwise.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have! Mr. Trevelyan, I should have. It shames me for you to see me like this. For you to see any of this. The Grey Wardens are good, Mr. Trevelyan. I promise you they are.”

Stroud was approaching. “This ritual isn’t over yet. I saw the Tevinter escape, that way.” He pointed. “There is an old Grey Warden fortress in that direction.”

Miss Cousland nodded. “Adamant,” she said in tones of vivid disgust. “They’re going to desecrate Adamant.”

“Miss Cousland,” said Turin, stepping forward before the approaching Hawke could reach her. “Miss Cousland, if there is anything I can do…I implore you, let me help.”

Her lip twitched. “Everyone wants to help. No one wants to let me face it. But this must be faced. I cannot do that with you.”

He ached to touch her, to draw her into his arms and grant her a moment’s comfort. But she turned away, squared her shoulders, and started toward the surviving Wardens. Turin was left behind, feeling like he had been caught in someone else’s battle. And feeling like he couldn’t win it.

***

When at last she was alone, in a tent behind a sheltering rock in the Approach, Fionne wept. She had chosen to leave the Wardens after the war, preferring to keep her own company rather than live amidst constant memories of the past. And in her absence…in her absence they had come to this. Summoning demons for a wild attempt at finding and killing the old gods.

It wasn’t a bad idea, the latter half of it, and as a Warden herself she understood. But the first half…

Mr. Trevelyan had sounded kind at the end. Was it pity that moved him? She could not accept that. 

But the ugly task was her true concern. Her fallen Wardens must be united again, without magisters, without blood magic, without slavery. Someone had to lead them back to the light. Could it be Stroud, who had been rejected once for his objections? Or someone else?

She had no authority anymore, except the fading influence of a former hero. But Mr. Trevelyan, as the Inquisitor…could she ask a favor so great? Whether he offered them mercy or banished them from sight, the direction they took would be dependent on the first leader to step in. 

To owe him would be galling. But to let the Wardens fall away without a reminder of what they were meant to be would be unconscionable. She resolved to speak with Mr. Trevelyan in the morning.

***

The ride back to Skyhold was rushed, and made at all only to gather more Templars and soldiers for the attack of the ancient Grey Warden fortress of Adamant. Whatever rituals the Tevinter magister presided over, they must be interrupted before his demon army broke forth – not for the Wardens’ ambitions but for that Tevinter master’s. 

Turin was surprised to find Miss Cousland pushing her horse to catch up with him on the homeward road. “Mr. Trevelyan,” she said without preamble. “I came to beg a favour.”

Her countenance bespoke great concern, which was the last thing he wished to impose upon her. “You never have before. What is it?”

“The Wardens.” She raised a hand to her coiled brown braid, windblown as it was under her steel bonnet. “Please, when this is done grant them leave to return to their duties in Orlais.”

“They have proved themselves dangerous,” said Turin. “You know this.”

“They can be more. You know that.”

“I know.” He had to think about it, but in truth he didn’t think long. “I cannot refuse you, you who have been such an example of what Grey Wardens can be. I shall grant them clemency.”

Her whole face softened, just for a moment, in something like relief. He wondered how to call that forth again. If gratitude did it, he must think…but he could not run ahead of himself. “Thank you,” she said.

“It is still strange to me that I can make such determinations,” he said. “I suppose these things fall in with responsibility.” It was not often that he felt young, but he felt young now. Duty had mounted faster than fortitude. He must never let anyone know.

“Yes, they do,” said Miss Cousland. “I know a little about feeling like the last defender of Thedas.”

The question circled in his head, then dove. “How did you live with it?”

She paused so long he wondered whether she had heard him. “I had friends,” she said distantly. Moments later she gathered up her composure and met his eye. “Go to her, if she makes you happy,” she said. “Life is too short for self-denial.”

It seemed a strange sentiment from so reserved a woman, but, whoever she was referring to, she clearly meant it. “Thank you,” he said. “It seems I am always thanking you.”

“It seems you are always welcome,” she said gently. “If I may be of further service, let me know.”

Her voice echoed through his head all night. How similar they were, indeed. Just who did she think he meant to go to? Lady Josephine? No, surely no one would be fooled by their polite warmth. Then who? Could she imagine his attentions on anyone but herself?

It had to be a question for another time. He resolved to bring that time forward as soon as practicable.


	22. Inquisitor Inquiring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Trevelyan asks a question and Miss Cousland answers. (What? That’s all?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is.

The afternoon was unseasonably cool, the castle was growing quickly toward repair and completion, and Turin felt an urgency quite separate from the need to resolve the situation at Adamant Fortress with the Grey Wardens. In fact, this matter had grown in consequence from the lightest whim to the question foremost in his mind. And Miss Cousland’s encouragements could only mean that what he meant to ask was welcome.

And why should he not ask? Miss Cousland was beautiful in a harsh way, accomplished beyond any woman he had ever known, level-headed, modest, discreet; if hard-edged and proud, well, life had made her so, and though men had snubbed her for it ever since, Turin had seen the passion for guardianship in her heart, and surely no other man could match her in both inclination and ability. Why not, indeed? Apart from Hawke, who was a joke, no one else was competing for her affections; the way was clear. He had first laid eyes on her thinking of a prize with a good yearly income. Was it not doubly fortuitous that she should turn out to be such a remarkable woman?

Remarkable. He smiled and shook his head. She was more than that. She was divine.

Yes. And if it were to be done, it had best be done soon. Mortal danger from day to day…his mind shied away from it. With the work at hand, any alliance was better made with the blend of prudence and haste best suited to accomplishing goals quickly.

He was quiet through dinner that night in Skyhold’s main hall. He struggled to meet Madame Vivienne’s wit, and couldn’t even summon the will to correct Cole on his atrocious use of that hat at the dinner table. Even Lady Josephine’s usual efforts to make him look good were only confusion to him. All his thoughts were directed toward the vital conversation he was to have with Miss Cousland. How to explain the development of feeling through the ordeals of the past year? How to explain any of it? Would he have to? Her perception was so quick, her mind so acute, surely she must understand when he began to elaborate.

His heart hammered and he had to set down his tea more than once.

Finally, finally, dinner was cleared away and the party adjourned to the study to discuss the demon attacks and also Master Tethras’s latest novel. The byplay washed over Turin’s head unnoticed. Gathering all his nerve, he moved to Miss Cousland’s side.

“Will you take some air with me in the garden, Miss Cousland?” he said, and was proud that it came out quiet but steady.

She raised her eyebrows. “If you wish,” she said. Was it a little curt? No, that must be her usual brusqueness, no more. No worse.

Never again, maybe, once she knew, once she agreed.

It was high summer and the garden's lushness added perfume to the night air. The arbor arches were wild in green, and the copse of trees in the corner waved in welcome. Turin guided Miss Cousland to a bench there and sat beside her.

“It’s a pleasant night,” said Turin.

“Any night we don’t have to work is pleasant,” said Fionne. “But I’ll say this is preferable to our first night in the field.”

All storms and lightning and demon blood. He remembered, and the thought gave him courage. “Miss Cousland, there is something I must ask you.”

Again, the eyebrow raise. “Do,” she said neutrally.

He pressed on. “When first I came to the county I thought you altogether too proud, too distant – a pride I thought unearned and a distance I thought best preserved. However, since that first meeting I find my feelings changed. What you lack in social graces you make up for in courage, in nobility of spirit – in short, in a collection of the finer virtues that makes you the unmatched warrior you are. When I was alone and in danger you gave to me your time, your invaluable advice, your strong arm and your level-headed counsel. Now, together, we are unstoppable. Everything I have become I owe to you, and everything we can be we deserve to be together. This battle is ours to face. And so I must ask, Miss Cousland.” He slid off the bench and to one knee, reaching toward but not touching her hand. “Will you consent to be my bride?”

The blood had drained from her face, and the faintest tremor seemed to take years from her manner. She took a deep breath and held it a moment before she spoke. “Mr. Trevelyan,” she said, low and distinct. “If I have ever led you to believe that such attentions are necessary or welcome I regret it deeply. You call me proud and lacking, then say that what redeemed me was my usefulness. Do you think I am so anxious to marry that I would choose a man linked to me only by the shared burden of responsibility? Do you confuse depth of danger for depth of feeling? I have never asked for your attentions, only sought to prepare you for the ordeals of our world. Yes, together we are unstoppable. We must be. But if I were to choose to wed for pragmatism, it would have to be a less self-centred man than you.”

Turin’s heart had sunk somewhere past his feet, and from where it lay now it laboured to keep him conscious. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. He tried again. “I see,” he said faintly, standing and reeling with dizziness. “I had not realized the significance this – our – association – had failed to have to you.” Stupid words, they couldn’t keep away the crushing impact of hers. “I shall burden you no further with an unwelcome presence.” He kept his face averted while he fled. The night closed behind him, and he ran to find someplace to hide.


	23. A Warden's Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland reacts to Mr. Trevelyan’s proposal, Mr. Trevelyan himself reacts, and the party interrupts this struggle to ride toward Adamant. (Of all the distractions…)

Fionne stumbled into the night, feeling for once that the darkness was no protection for her. She could not rejoin the merriment inside, not after the shock Mr. Trevelyan had given her. What was he thinking? Did she seem so lonely, so desperate, that any kindness must be met with grateful acceptance? Was it just the remains of her fortune and her name he wanted? Or…or else had he felt it, too, that link between them, when neither demon nor rift could break their rhythm, their joint battle meditation?

What did it mean to him? Did it mean so much? Was he serious? Had she ever known him not to be?

Had she ever known him?

She stumbled up to the ramparts where the chill wind left her short of breath. She patrolled, torn between the need to be alone and the desire for warmth, until finally she gave in and entered the nearest door – the one to Sister Leliana’s adopted tower.

Before she entered she drew herself upright with careful concentration. It would not do to fly to pieces just because a man she…she had…dealings…with…it was too confusing to think about. She just needed someplace safe to be.

When she got inside she was shocked to find Sister Leliana there in spite of the late hour. “Oh,” she said weakly. “Good evening, Leliana.”

The redhead looked up with a small smile and an inquiring tilt to her head. “That is a strange direction for you to be coming from at night, Fionne.”

“I must…” so long as she was here, she might be able to offer some help … “I must speak with you.”

Leliana gave Fionne a quick once-over and nodded, agreeing if not understanding. “Please, sit.” She indicated the overstuffed chair opposite her desk.

Fionne sagged against the velvet cushions. “Leliana, something terrible has happened.”

“What is it?”

Fionne told all she had the wits to tell, which Leliana somehow managed to follow, at least to get to the gist of it. “Fionne,” she said, “I’m shocked. Has he ever given you reason to believe…?”

“Never,” Fionne cried miserably. “Our association has always been limited to demon hunting, the Inquisition, and the occasional society dance.”

“All of which he has in common with me, or Lady Josephine, or Lady Cassandra...not to sound rude, but why has he so suddenly singled out you?”

“I don’t know! Either my money or my supposed desperation, I imagine, but – I cannot believe he is so superficial as that. No one who fights so bravely…. None of us have ever seen him in love, I know, but I cannot imagine that he would put on such airs unless he means it. And yet if he does…! Leliana, I rejected him, in no uncertain terms. What does this mean for the Inquisition? Must I step down?”

“Absolutely not!” cried Leliana. “Our most seasoned demon hunter, chased from the field by the indelicacy of a…a…a cosmic accident?”

“An accident? You don’t believe that mark was the Maker’s?”

“Please. Were Andraste to send a saviour to us she would make him a gentleman. And a gentleman Mr. Trevelyan is not, if he has used you so.” Leliana clucked her tongue. “I can have my spies search his effects for any evidence to support or disabuse.”

“No! You mustn’t let anyone know you know. Oh, how wretched this will be until we can all put this behind us!”

“Put it out of your mind,” Leliana said firmly. “His feelings are confused in the chaos of the Inquisition. If he oversteps himself, which he has, we must forgive him and move on. And if he truly desires a chance…let him earn it. That is, if you would ever consider him in earnest.”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t going to. Nobody wants me, Leliana. Nobody has since the war, and _he_ and the war are both over. It’s too late to change now.”

There was no more she needed to say. Leliana had been a close witness to the events of the war, and to the man secretly betrothed to a very young Fionne. “Is it because of _him_?” said Leliana. “Dear Fionne, if someone can meet your standards now, don’t reject him because of the past.”

“I don’t know what my standards now are,” Fionne said miserably. “I wasn’t looking. Oh, why did Mr. Trevelyan have to change that?”

“A good fight will put it out of his mind,” said Leliana, and began a sly smile. “We’ll just have to see that he finds one.”

***

Rejected! He! Lord Inquisitor! It was not to be believed, not to be borne. Turin sat perfectly still and thought it through. Had she not offered training with a certain partiality, a particular attention to his merits and his efforts? Had she not danced with him an hundred times, an office she seemed to encourage only for him? Had he not every reason to believe her receptive to his plans and intentions? No, if she believed their association to be nothing she had misled him grievously, and not only grievously but heartlessly. It was an act beneath the woman he had thought she was. Perhaps it was just as well her wretched pride – the only passion she seemed capable of – had cut this possibility short. Frigid Warden! Now embarrassment between them was unavoidable; but embarrassment might well be preferable to a life with someone so unbending, so consciously superior. Rejected! It was just as well he had not spent more time cultivating their association, an association that must now stand tainted by confusion on his side and, surely, rightfully earned shame on hers.

What was there to do? -- the only thing to do -- the only thing to satisfy delicacy, honour, and the requirements of their situation -- he must carry on as though she had never thrown his kindness in his face, as though she had never humiliated him. Creature of stone! Somehow he must find the strength of will to face her as a sister-in-arms, as another soldier in his great and ungrateful army. He had no doubt that she, cold and immoveable as her heart was, would have no trouble playing the part.

He left the garden and proceeded to his quarters, avoiding everyone on the way. Sleep was the only remedy he had for the sharp and pressing pain. And if he woke and found himself still wounded…well, let that be dealt with when he got there.

***

The double column made good time on the dry roads, a fact for which Fionne was grateful. There were few circumstances more socially awkward than getting one’s wheels stuck in the mud on the way to a siege.

She rode alongside the Grey Warden, Stroud, Hawke’s friend. He seemed a companionable enough sort, well-mannered if not highly bred. Even the roiling confusion of the past two days subsided a little with someone agreeable to talk to.

“There was a great deal of talk when you left,” Stroud was saying. “No one was certain why.”

“Why I should have retired from public life after the Hero’s passing? Everyone knew. There could only be one reason.”

He hesitated. “Personally, to be frank, I thought that was just something the bards invented.”

“No.” She looked away.

“I am sorry.” Even through his thick Orlesian accent she could tell he meant it. “It was not my intention to cause you pain.”

“It is in the past, Warden-Constable.” She took a deep breath. “In truth I am glad you are here now. I would not wish to face what we are about to face alone. Should we find Mr. Blackwall? We can have a meeting of the free Wardens to pit against those who belong to Corypheus.”

Stroud rose in his stirrups and looked around. “I cannot see him.”

“If he’s not in the main column he must be scouting ahead. He does that. He was never all that sociable.”

“Wardens are not selected for their charm,” said Stroud. “Take me for example.”

Was that a twinkle in that dark eye? Would flirting be as deadly here as unconscious partiality was elsewhere? No, she didn’t care. At least it was flirting instead of the flat assumption of tribute affection. “I find you perfectly agreeable, ser. And if you mean to say that I would fail such a test–”

“Perish the thought. You raise the class of the Wardens just being here.”

She looked down while she tried to think of what to say. “It still feels strange to smile,” she said. She had suppressed that for so long. “I like it, though.”

He smiled, yet seemed to back off a hair’s breadth. She was grateful for the delicateness. “The Wardens would welcome you, you know. At Weisshaupt. From there you could go anywhere.”

She had not thought of what might happen after the Inquisition was finished. The prospect was not an encouraging one. “I don’t know. I want to go home, but Amaranth is buried. I’ve known no other home for almost eleven years. I could request my brother’s hospitality at Highever but he doesn’t need an old maid presuming on his kindness.”

“Consider the Wardens,” urged Stroud. “For that matter, you could come to Orlais. Once we helped you rebuild the Fereldan order. After this blood ritual’s madness, we may need your help rebuilding our own.”

“I need to think about it,” she said.

He nodded. “I shall ask no more than that. – Ho! Hawke! Are you just riding circles around the column now?”

Mr. Hawke waved jauntily from the far side of a wagon. “I need to feel like I’m doing something,” he called. “Miss Cousland, if you get bored we could probably have a dance atop the siege weaponry; they’re going slow enough, it’ll be perfectly safe.” His great roan steed whickered and he trotted off in another direction.

Fionne laughed. “Is he that...um...outgoing with everyone?”

“With women? It is his way. If he oversteps feel free to put him in his place. Everyone else does.”

Again, the twinkle. “You’re good friends,” she said.

“In an acutely unreliable world, he can be counted on to do what’s right.”

“Ah. Those ones are valuable.”

“Indeed. He wants only a flair for killing darkspawn to make the perfect Warden.”

“And put the rest of us out of employment?” Fionne put a hand to her armoured breast. “Heavens, no, let us leave him to dancing on catapults. It’s safer for everyone.”


	24. The Bitterness of Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adamant Fortress is besieged and Miss Cousland is transported with others into a place not of this battlefield. (The Fade. I’m sure of it.)

Adamant was a formidable fortress, and Turin felt a stab of doubt even with the siege machinery the Inquisition brought to bear. If fighters the calibre of Miss Cousland and Mr. Blackwall waited inside…it would take an army indeed to oust them.

Still, he bided his time while the catapults and cannon opened fire, and once a spot on the walls was clear he climbed a ladder with Miss Cousland, the Iron Bull, Hawke, Stroud, Cole, Master Tethras, and Mr. Solas. He was somewhat relieved to know that Miss Cousland, for one, brooked no distractions, including him. Good. Let her be the soldier she wanted to be. It would make no difference to him. They fought down the battlements even amidst the crazed battering of cannon fire. They fought down stairs and up stairs, through courtyards and around towers, until they found the high stone platform where their Tevinter magister stood, flanked by demons. And beside him stood Warden-Commander Clarel of Orlais.

Stroud shouted a plea to her, and in response she took the blood of a willing Warden. Here as at the Western Approach, mages bound in will used the blood to open another portal and let demons through. 

Miss Cousland fired at once. The magister dodged it and grinned redly at Turin. “My master thought you might come here, Inquisitor! He sent me this to welcome you!”

And then the sky burned. The archdemon swooped down upon them.

In the uproar one voice rang clear. “That is no archdemon,” shouted Miss Cousland, standing firm and raising her musket. “It is a dragon. And dragons die.” She fired. The archdemon swept up at the last moment, shooting crystalline fire to scatter bodies across the scene before wheeling for another pass.

“Miss Cousland, get down!” shouted Turin. If she wanted to be just a soldier of his, then she would be just a soldier. And he would treat her accordingly, orders and all.

She stepped up onto a loose stone and sighted again. His heart lurched. Running forward, he grasped at her arm. “Miss Cousland! I do not require a martyr!”

She snarled, the expression utterly out of place on her refined face. “Mr. Trevelyan,” she shouted back, “I am not here for your requirements.”

Clarel was swinging her staff, finally turned against the magister. The dragon stooped one more time. Clarel’s vicious lightning attack sent it crashing to the wall – and the wall gave way, followed quickly by the rampart atop it. Miss Cousland lowered her musket and ran forward with Master Tethras to pull Stroud to his feet. In that descent was every possible future closing. She was not just a soldier, and could never be. Turin extended one impotent sparking hand, and watched them fall.

***

Green swelled around Fionne and snapped. She began to fall back upwards, toward the tower. Unable to turn herself she plummeted (or rose?) in mute confusion until she slammed into a sharp-paved floor at the top of the world.

Everything turned. She pulled herself to her feet. She winced and raised her hands to find them bloodied. 

Stroud stood perpendicular with his boots planted on a nearby wall. “Where are we?” he said, a question that would do well for all of them at that moment.

“Is this…” said Mr. Hawke, standing at an angle with his own boots over his head. “Are we dead?”

“I did not expect that to be like this,” said Fionne. “It reminds me of something…the Fade.” She looked around. The terrain was rocky, with no view toward the horizon to show the Black City she remembered so well from her one conscious visit to the Fade these twelve years ago. Above, in the sky, the Breach hung green and hateful, just as if it had never been closed. “Mr. Trevelyan was far behind me. Did he manage to open a rift? Is he here? Who else survived?”

“I’m not sure I did,” came Master Tethras’s voice. “But if you say so I’ll take it.” He limped around the corner, moving stiffly as though wounded. Fionne could not tend to him now. No one could until they found safety again, wherever that might be.

“The Iron Bull was back with our other soldiers defending our escape route,” said Fionne. “I think you…no, there was also Cole. And Mr. Solas.”

“I’m all right,” Cole said behind her. “Remembering, undoing, hands unfelt. Strange to be back here.”

“But I’m glad you’re with us,” she said. “That leaves only Mr. Solas.”

“Solas,” shouted Stroud at once.

“You don’t know what will hear you!” said Mr. Hawke.

“If we must fight our way out, we will have to do so with or without shouting,” said Stroud. “And we must have our strength together to have a chance. Solas!”

“Mr. Solas!” added Fionne, looking around the greenish stones and twisted undulations of the landscape. Mr. Hawke was gingerly walking down his stone wall toward Fionne’s concept of ground. Together they spread out, shouting.

Just ahead of Fionne Solas surfaced from a shallow pond. It seemed to drain about him as he rose until he stood on solid, dry ground, and he stood there, taking in the scene, in perfect calm.

“Mr. Solas!” Fionne said, approaching. “Thank the Maker. I feared we had lost you.”

“I was not lost,” he said quietly. “The Fade is not so terrible to me.”

“I place myself in your hands,” said Fionne. “If there is a way out you must know how to open it.”

Solas nodded fractionally. “What spirit commands this place? I have never seen anywhere like it.” His admission of ignorance lanced Fionne through with something unfamiliar: fear.

“I do not know,” said Stroud. “In our world, the rift the demons came through was nearby. In Adamant’s main hall. Can we escape that way?”

Solas kept looking around. “The demon that controls this area is extremely powerful. Some variety of fear demon, at a guess.”

“If it is so powerful,” said Fionne, “why is this so chaotic?” She gestured around at sourceless waterfalls, angry red stone formations, and glistening green stones that seemed to warp the light around them.

“What you would choose as normal and what it would choose as normal,” said Mr. Solas, “may be far asunder.”

They proceeded toward the Breach in the sky. If it had a ground equivalent, that might be their way out.

And then there was a different spirit. A woman in Chantry garb, lined by sorrows but never by defeat. The group stopped dead as though caught. For a moment all was silent.

“Mother Justinia,” said Master Tethras. “Lady Cassandra wouldn’t stop talking about her. I thought she…I mean. Not to put too fine a point on it.”

“She did,” said Fionne. “Anything we meet here is a spirit, no more. One must have taken her face.”

And yet…she offered help and succor, where nothing else did. She described their enemy here: a nightmare feeding off memories of fear and darkness. Cole made a small distressed noise at the news. In truth, Fionne could think of nothing closer to an opposite to the youth-spirit. Perhaps it was a measure of his virtue that she now thought an opposite a bad thing.

“A demon of nightmares rules here,” the spirit finished, “nightmares and fear. I cannot open a door for you here. But you may find one.”

Hawke thanked her, followed reluctantly by Stroud. They went on their way. Behind them the stones sighed and grumbled, and Fionne thought that at one point the path closed behind them. They could only go forward.

The brown landscape melted itself into a dreary plain, much of it submerged in shallow brackish water. Near a stand of broken stones stood what looked like a burial plot of over a dozen headstones. Fionne approached with trepidation, determined to go no closer than necessary to see what the stones signified.

The first one said “SOLAS: DYING ALONE.” Solas stared at it, impassive. “How peculiar,” he said.

“But what is it?” said Fionne.

“Fear,” said Hawke. “The demon really thinks it’s going to bother us this way.”

Fionne frowned, realizing sharply that conversation would not appease this monster. She had only to find out what would. “Well, it won’t work. There’s not a fear here we can’t face. And won’t, if it means getting out of here.” She moved on. “Master Tethras: ‘Becoming his parents’?” she said. “I never met your parents, but surely you know yourself better than that. You’ve become your own man, no one could possibly shame you for it.”

“You tell ‘em,” grumbled Master Tethras. “He’s not playing fair.”

“‘Despair’?” Fionne read off the Fade-blurred tombstone. “Cole? Never. You know that, Cole. You may have made mistakes, but giving up was never one of them.” 

“I hope not,” Cole said, very quietly.

“Miss Cousland,” said Hawke in a curiously altered voice.

Fionne picked her way through the chilly yard to join him where he stood facing a stone smaller than most of the others. He pointed. There on the stone was written, in those deep, firm letters, “FIONNE COUSLAND” and, below it, “LIVING”.

“Oh,” she said, and felt a sudden wild need to fill the silence. “I was mistaken,” she said loudly. “This is just the demon’s guess at what will get to us. It doesn’t really know us at all, it simply imagines fears we might have and throws them out in an attempt to shake us.”

“And we can’t have that,” said Hawke, “can we?” He looked at her with a pity she could not bear and a kindness she did not want to. “Mine says ‘making a difference, again,’” he said, and moved on.


	25. The Procession Less Triumphal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland and her cohorts escape the Fade, Mr. Trevelyan opines what would have happened if she failed to reappear (what has he the right to say?), Mr. Tethras seeks to comfort Miss Cousland (if ever we needed a wordsmith…), the Inquisition turns its sights home, and Turin questions Warden Blackwall’s perceptions.

The party, having strayed very far from the haunts of polite company, now came upon a stone-choked pass blocked by a thick bank of green mist, luminous and deadly-looking. “The only way through,” said Stroud.

“Let me go first,” said Fionne.

“Let me,” Mr. Hawke said quickly. “If it has a dangerous effect I may be hardy enough to feel it and escape.”

“I would be insulted,” said Fionne, wishing that she did have the physical strength to compete, “but for your sake, I shall forbear.”

It was not such an important choice after all. The moment Hawke touched the drifting mist it streamed around and past him to swamp the whole party. And when it touched, Fionne saw.

She saw a memory that was not her own. It was something Mr. Trevelyan had never admitted to, perhaps didn’t know thanks to the dark influence of the demon. This memory said he saw Corypheus at the secret meeting in the chapel: Corypheus sweeping up Mother Justinia by her neck, claiming her as sacrifice. The unknown ritual with a mysterious orb. Justinia making one desperate sweep with her hand; the orb falling, rolling to Mr. Trevelyan’s feet as he stumbled onto the scene.

Then green and a roaring that seemed to push at Fionne’s ears from the inside, and then silence.

“Is everyone all right?” It was Master Tethras’s voice. “Maker’s toenails, this place gets creepier all the time.”

“I’m all right,” Fionne croaked. The mist around them was dispersing. Her allies were drawing upright and adding their voices in assent.

“Did you see that?” Mr. Solas said, his voice heavy with what seemed very much like dread.

“Yes,” said Master Tethras. “Kind of wish I didn’t. That explains a few things about our friend Trevelyan, though.”

“Yes,” sighed Mr. Solas. “It must.”

“We should continue,” said Fionne. “The only view I want of Mr. Trevelyan’s thoughts are the ones he chooses to express.” Hawke laughed at that. The sound was more than welcome under the circumstances.

Scant minutes later she heard it. “Ah, we have a visitor.” The voice shivered Fionne’s bones and chilled her heart. “Some foolish little girl comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from her friend’s shoulders. You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten.”

“The demon?” Fionne said in a low voice. Mr. Solas nodded. “I am not here for your memories, beast.” But nothing answered.

They moved on, weapons at the ready.

“Mr. Solas?” said Fionne.

“Yes?” said Mr. Solas.

“These mirrors we see on the way. The broken ones. What are they?”

“They’re eluvians,” said Mr. Hawke, of all people. “Aren’t they?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Solas, casting him a curious glance. “The ancient elves used them to travel great distances in a step.”

“Why are they here?” said Fionne.

“Because the fear demon brought them forth. It has not the power to make a real one. These are just broken memories of a time when such travel was possible.”

“If you’re not careful you’ll just invite a demon trying,” said Mr. Hawke. “Personally I vote we don’t try restoring the ones that are here.”

He had no smiles for Fionne now. “You speak from experience,” she said.

“More than I ever cared to have. Let’s listen to Mr. Solas. Leave them in the past.”

The Fade dragged on. The spirit who called itself Mother Justinia met them once more and led them onward, diaphanous and glowing. She slowed, though, as they rounded a corner into what looked like a natural stone arena. A tall demonic creature of some sort waited in the centre, floating gently and impossibly up and down.

Beyond, outside, past it, was a larger thing, worlds larger, a spider, sitting quietly, patiently, waiting for its prey to wear itself out. At the top of a staircase a little to one side stood a green rift, unmistakable. Fionne fervently wished that Mr. Trevelyan would not close this one too soon.

“Two to go,” Mr. Hawke said quietly. “I was hoping we’d get back to smashing. We are so very good at it.”

Together they charged. The demon met them in a fury of lightning. 

Here in the Fade Fionne did not trust her musket. She ran back and forth, slashing at her demonic foe any time their paths crossed. Stroud kept pace, his shield proving its mettle against the demon’s claws.

The spider bobbed its head with its array of prismatic eyes. It waited.

The immediate threat finally shrieked and died. “Everyone,” called Fionne, and led the way up the staircase to the glowing rift.

The spider moved.

Fionne pushed her limbs to exertion such as they had never known. Her compatriots kept pace. But it become terribly clear, terribly fast, that they would not make it unless something distracted the spider.

Fionne slowed her steps, resolve coalescing within and steadying her voice and her hand. Somewhere distant outside the rift someone screamed her name. But for once in her life she could ignore the urgings of others. This, then, was the time and place, that which had been denied her in the past. “I can get you time,” she said. “Go.”

“No!” burst Mr. Hawke. “That’s ridiculous, no one needs to…”

“It’s gaining,” said Fionne.

“If anyone has to stop it it’ll be me,” Mr. Hawke said decisively. “All of you, run.”

“Hawke,” said Master Tethras, slowing in step.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Stroud. “The world still needs its Champion.” He shot a look of endless patience at Fionne. “And its Hero.” And with that, he stopped dead.

“Stroud!” screamed Fionne. “Run!”  
Mr. Hawke looked at Stroud. Stroud looked at Hawke and nodded, just barely.  
And then a brawny arm was around her waist. Mr. Hawke pulled her up bodily and resumed his run toward the yawning rift. Fionne struggled, kicked, flailed at him with the flat of her blade; but nothing slowed him up or relieved his odious grip on her person.

“It’s me,” she shrieked, “let me fight! Save yourself!”

“We’re both saved,” grunted Mr. Hawke, “and you’ll take it.”

In spite of herself she clung to him as they passed through the burning green portal and back into the stifling heat of Adamant Fortress. They fell together, and Fionne found herself too distraught to think of the composition of her skirts as she landed and, jabbing Mr. Hawke with her sabre to loose his grip, rolled free.

Once done she made it to her knees. The rift above them was gone. No one was in sight in the ruined courtyard but battered warriors, wounded friends…and Mr. Hawke. She found that her fury would admit no further effort; so she stayed fixed in one place. “You had no right!” she screamed.

Mr. Hawke, covering his newly wounded side lest he make an ungentlemanly show of blood, snarled back at her. “I had every right! Stroud made his choice!”

“Then why didn’t you let me make mine?”

“You didn’t have to die!” She noted his heaving breaths and could only be happy that he was suffering for his unforgivable overstep. Yet he took another breath and drove more words home. “Because if I can save one bloody person from the folly of the Wardens…”

And then Master Tethras was there, his musket stowed on his back. He reached to touch Mr. Hawke’s elbow, as if to remind him of the proprieties. “Hawke. Easy. We’ll find out what happened to Bethany.” Master Tethras looked around, viewing only the sand-whipped aftermath of nocturnal destruction. “At least she wasn’t here. That’s a good sign.”

Fionne forced herself to her feet and dusted off her skirts. Lady Cassandra was approaching. Fionne’s rage, the loss of another Warden she could not save, could only admit of a repetition of her words. “You had no right.”

“I shall not apologize,” said Mr. Hawke. “We have all survived blows meant to fell us. That doesn’t oblige us to fall.”

“No,” she whimpered. “It was Stroud. My Warden. Again. Again! I was supposed to stop it! I was supposed to die!” Weeping, she leaned against Lady Cassandra when the latter offered her arms; she sobbed and buried her face in Cassandra’s sleeve. “I was supposed to die,” she said brokenly. “I was supposed to save him.”

***

Turin stared at the pair locked in miserable embrace, Miss Cousland against the solid, armoured Cassandra. His heart throbbed in the knowledge that he could not be the one to rejoice in her survival. Or comfort her for it.

He realized dimly that his shoulder was pulsing pain. He rolled it once and instantly regretted it. “Iron Bull, you needn’t have been quite so forceful.”

The mercenary stepped up beside him. “I was just forceful enough. I kept you from making a dead fool of yourself. Jumping into Fade rifts is not in your job description. I checked.”

That was as far from the point as one could get and the Iron Bull had to know it. “I could have saved Stroud.”

“R-ight. It was Stroud you were worried about.”

Turin frowned, feeling that somehow his honour had been slighted but not seeing any ready way to redeem it. “I wanted them all out safely.”

“Look. She’s fine.”

Miss Cousland might be many things, but as she was, wounded and weeping, ‘fine’ was not one of them. He could not imagine the ordeal that would reduce her to tears, but evidently he had just seen the results of one, and his helplessness weighed on him as though this whole endeavour had been a defeat. “I would have made every surviving Warden pay if she weren’t.”

“Whoa. Boss.” 

“Say one more word…”

The Iron Bull studied him a moment too long, his mien deadly serious. Then he turned away. “I’ll round up the survivors.”

***

Fionne clasped her hood firmly around her head and slouched in the saddle. She bitterly wished that they had brought a carriage fit for passengers. All she wanted was to be away from everyone.

Somebody else came riding up alongside. She turned her face away.

“Miss Cousland?” It was Master Tethras’s voice. “Can you actually see anything with your hood up like that?”

“Go away,” she replied, not caring for the niceties at this point. Maybe never again. Her wretchedness was complete, having once again failed to save someone who relied on her. She could not imagine normal social intercourse; nor did she want to.

“I just don’t want you riding straight into a ditch. It’s bad for your health, you know. Not so great for the horse, either.”

“Leave me be. Doesn’t your friend Mr. Hawke want an audience for his antics? See to it.”

“Hawke wants to know whether you’re all right after what happened in there. So do the rest of us.”

“His name disgusts me. I shall say once more, leave me be.”

Silence. She hoped he had moved away. In time, he must have.

She kept to her horse, then to her tent, then to her horse again, and so on. Finally they rode back into Skyhold, a noisy and happy-sounding return. She slipped off her horse and ran for her own quarters, there to the comfort of her solitary bed.

***

Warden Blackwall frequently ranged well clear of the column. Turin, however, wove back and forth until he intercepted the brown-bearded Warden.

“Good day,” said Turin, with a civil nod.

“Good day.” The Grey Warden looked tired. “I imagine you’re here to talk about the archdemon.”

“Not an archdemon after all, it seems.”

“I was mistaken,” Blackwall said in a low voice. “I had no prior experience of an archdemon, I simply assumed the…the Joining would give me the ability to sense it, and that I would know when that moment came. Yet I was mistaken. Whatever I sensed, it was not truly…perhaps the same Blight that bears Corypheus was what I sensed in his dragon.” He paused. “I had no way of knowing.”

“Just how long have you been a Grey Warden?”

He rolled his shoulders. “A few years. I was mostly trained on the road in Ferelden.”

“After Miss Cousland left, presumably.”

“That’s right.”

He was solid, and yet in the critical things he might still be inexperienced. That was far preferable to any alternate explanation. “Perhaps closer training with her would be of benefit in preventing future misunderstandings.”

Blackwall scowled. “It would be presumptuous beyond words to ask that now.”

“I know.” Involuntarily Turin looked ahead to where the cloaked figure rode. He felt it even when he was looking away. If she had questions, she would not ask them any time soon. Perhaps it would be best to leave the matter to her. “When some time has passed. She must teach you all she knows. Even if no archdemon arises, we face something touched by the Blight. I need your reflexes to be accurate.”

“Understood.” Warden Blackwall hunched his shoulders and looked to the horizon with a jaundiced eye. He stayed in that attitude until Turin gave up and left.


	26. Mysteries Revealed and Mysteries Preserved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sister Leliana seeks solace from Mr. Solas, Mr. Trevelyan gives a convalescing Miss Cousland a gift (well, it’s a step, anyway), Miss Cousland receives it, and Sister Leliana explains matters of the heart to Mr. Trevelyan. (With particular respect to Miss Cousland? Really!)

Mr. Solas was painting in the atrium when Sister Leliana sidled in. She leaned back out to check the hallway, then closed the door, leaving her alone with the elf. Sometimes propriety must be bent, and Leliana judged this to be one such time.

“Mr. Solas?” she said.

The mage lowered his brush and turned around. “Ah, Sister Leliana. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You were in the Fade, weren’t you. I’ve read the report.”

“Yes. An utterly unique experience, even for one who has explored the Fade through dreams.”

“But you saw Mother Justinia.”

He sensed that the question was pivotal, and regretted that it was unanswerable. “A spirit claiming her name. I can give you no more assurance than that.”

“Oh, Mr. Solas, but you must! What did she say? Was it truly she? Did she have any words for – for – for her…”

“Allies?” Solas suggested politely.

“Yes,” said Leliana. “Justinia was so important to us, to the Chantry, to the world…is there truly some part of her still able to help? And to need help?”

Solas set his supplies aside and steepled his fingers. “Sister, I wish I had a satisfactory answer for you. Perhaps Mother Justinia’s, essence, her soul, lingers on in the Fade. But it is equally likely that a spirit took its impression of her and presented that to you. If it did benefit you and yours, does the exact mechanism make a difference?”

“Mr. Solas,” Leliana said stiffly, “I believe you miss the point. If it were truly Mother Justinia, she would have something, some words, something to send to her friends here. Did she truly say nothing?”

“Only what was needful for us to escape the Fade. Consider it her last gift to you. I for one shall endeavour to live up to it.”

“Would Miss Cousland know more?”

“I doubt she would understand any subtlety of the Fade that escaped my notice. You may ask, however.”

“Not yet. She is in mourning. Not, I think, for Adamant, but for something much older.”

“You speak in riddles, Sister.”

“Forgive me. When she wishes to speak, she will. Good day, Mr. Solas.”

***

“Hey! You! You? Excuse me, you can’t just take cuttings – oh!” The Chantry mother fell back. “Inquisitor! Forgive me, I did not realize…”

“You never saw me here,” said Turin, searching the dawn-stained garden ‘round for any other possible observers. “I’m just taking this for some alchemy practice.”

After four days’ complete silence the alchemy he had in mind was nothing less than the transmutation of stone to heart; however, all would be lost if he were to be discovered. He took his armload of flowers and stole down a side corridor toward Miss Cousland’s chambers.

Cole’s appearance in the hallway brought Turin to a panicked stop. “Cole! Maker’s breath, what are you…?”

Cole lifted a large vase. “I brought this. They left some water in it.”

“How did you even know…no, never mind. Miss Cousland. Have you been watching her?”

“From a distance. Raw recriminations, roiling and raging. She won’t let me in.”

“But you’re helping me with this.”

“I’m helping you with this,” Cole agreed, singsong.

“Can you…make yourself forget that you did this?”

Cole tilted his head. “I could. But I can’t do it here. I would just remind myself.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

Cole nodded jerkily. And then he wasn’t there anymore.

Turin arranged the flowers in the vase. It barely held them all. He didn’t know if they met any aesthetic standards. He hoped it was enough that they were bright and unbidden.

***

Fionne stayed in her chambers in Skyhold. The perpetual chill suited her; she deserved no comfort now. Someone provided her with food. When they said her name she pretended to be asleep. She let days go by.

Someone knocked. Fionne thought about sending them away forever. Did no one realize that all she wanted now was solitude? Did no one care? Or was she to be denied this solace, too?

“Come in,” she said tiredly. Every now and then, she supposed, she could be as courteous as befitted Miss Cousland.

What came through the door was a vase of flowers big enough to fill the arms of its anonymous carrier. A riot of reds and yellows, goldenrod and yarrow, spires and whorls, governed by what seemed to be an eye for the dramatic above all other taste, bobbled into the room and turned. Sister Leliana was behind it.

“Leliana,” Fionne said weakly. “What is this?”

The lady carried the whole to Fionne’s bed and laid it down at her bedside. “Someone wanted to cheer you up,” she said coyly.

“How is this supposed to cheer me? They’re all cut off. Dying.”

Leliana pursed her lips and frowned. “It’s not so dire as that. Some of these, if you plant them right now, will grow right back. Life can do that, you know.”

“I beseech you to spare me your sermons, Leliana.” What a show. What a wasteful show. “These flowers mean nothing to me except as a reminder of mortality, and a reminder that some people prefer to meanly hide kindnesses rather than dealing them directly.”

“Would you accept it any other way?”

“Hm.” Fionne leaned over and touched her nose to the arrangement. Softly, with a sigh of surrender, she relaxed her shoulders, then took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said, almost to the flowers, “just the same.”

Leliana’s most impish smile showed. “It wasn’t me.” She started toward the door.

“Wait!” cried Fionne. “You cannot leave me wanting after a statement like that!”

“Can, and will. You can do some sleuthing of your own if you decide to join us again.”

No. She would do no such thing. Fionne flopped back on the pillow and curled up, leaving the flowers to their own devices.

***

Turin kept a writing-desk on a little landing that looked out in one direction over the yard and in another direction over the grand hall. It was solitary, in its way, but allowed him to keep the pulse of the castle as a whole. In the hours where he was not patrolling the grounds taking reports and drinks from associates and friends, he was here, tending to his personal correspondence, which had expanded dramatically ever since his arrival at Skyhold.

“Your flowers were accepted with grace,” said Sister Leliana.

Turin jumped out of his chair. “W–what flowers?”

“Please. It is my business to know what goes on that may disturb things.” She smiled.

“I wish you had left that report alone,” said Turin. “Miss Cousland has made her attitude clear. And it is her prerogative to remain perfectly cold, reserved, unsociable…”

“She has her reasons,” said Sister Leliana.

His worry could only burst forth as anger. “What reason is there to reject the barest functions of society!”

“Did you ever hear the tale of her role in the war?”

“That she won it, I know. What else is there?”

“She was in love with the other Hero, Prince Alistair. After a courtship conducted between crises on the road they were secretly engaged. He was to be king, and she his queen.”

Turin slowly sat down again. “I cannot see her in that role.” Only, he could. Set aside the frippery of royalty and she had the strength of will to sustain the hard work. Had he not himself considered her as a potential second in command for the Inquisition in an idle moment here and there? And next to the Inquisition, one lonely country must be perfectly manageable.

“She did,” said Leliana. “Everything was in place, except that a Grey Warden must give their life to kill an archdemon.”

His thoughts ran at once to Corypheus’s archdemon, if archdemon it was. “We must find another way,” he said.

“There is none,” said Leliana. “The last surviving Warden in Ferelden, apart from Miss Cousland and Prince Alistair, gave his life just bringing the creature to earth. In the last moments Miss Cousland and Prince Alistair fought alone. She was prepared to sacrifice herself. He stopped her, pushing her out of the way, and ran in himself. She watched her beloved die, and was helpless to stop it.”

“I…didn’t realize.”

“I know you didn’t. She doesn’t talk about it. The engagement was a secret, even if the feeling was not, and his death was too public for words. Add this to the fact that Queen Anora silenced all speculation about the Grey Wardens taking the throne…and you have a story to explain her reclusiveness.”

Something was squeezing Turin’s lungs and he didn’t know what. “I believe I should thank you,” he managed. “Truly, I had no idea of the reasons for her reticence. And now, to once again be physically stopped from saving her comrades…Maker’s breath. It must have been a trial beyond endurance.”

“She subsists on will. Now as before she reserves herself for a cause worth dying for. She does not mean to throw away her life, only spend it where it will do the most good.”

“She must have more hope than that.”

“Not for a long time.” Sister Leliana looked away. “I am needed elsewhere. Think about what I’ve said. She has her reasons for caution.”

“I understand. I do.” And he did. Maker’s breath! And to think he condemned her for too little feeling, when in truth she felt too much! Now surely it was too late for a new start born of mutual understanding and help. Oh, to think he had been some small cause of her grief! What abominable prejudice on his part - what forbearance on hers! He had thought his chagrin complete when she rejected him out of hand, but knowing now what injustice he had done her made everything ten times worse. What would drive a woman to retire from the world, to come out from hiding only when destiny made another demand? What a fool he had been, not thinking to ask! And what a fool to think that that destiny was his to control! If Fionne had come to him in that moment she could not fail to be moved, to find him humbler, more patient, more understanding.

Yet no less attached than he had been before. There was nothing for him to do, except treat her with kindness. He resolved to do so the moment she showed her face.


	27. After Long Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland comes to a very personal realization (does Mr. Trevelyan know?), she reports for duty to the Inquisition, she refuses to sit next to Mr. Hawke, and Mr. Trevelyan goes drinking with the Chargers. (Wait, what?)

Fionne’s thoughts trudged in tired circles. Nightmare demon. Stroud. Hawke. Failure. Nightmare demon. Stroud. Hawke. Failure. Even after she ran out of tears she could still berate herself. She had been there, weapon in hand, and had still failed everyone. And Stroud had died for it. Stroud, one of a long line of Grey Wardens who had died because of her, or at least died while she was nearby being useless. Nightmare demon. Stroud. Hawke. Failure.

She turned over and looked at the festive flowers beside her bed. Such a waste. Yet someone had put in the thought and time to assemble all this for her. Why would they? She didn’t pretend to know. She didn’t know what to pretend.

Her thoughts slid onto a different path.

LIVING, the nightmare demon had said. That was her weakness, her great fear. Living. Demons lied. It was in their nature. And yet…was there not a seed of truth in this one?

She had wanted to give her life there in the Fade. She had wanted to give her life ever since the desperate days of Denerim, when she resigned herself to die to end the archdemon and the Blight. Nothing that had transpired since then had shaken her belief that that was her real destiny. Alistair had robbed her of that sacrifice, but never of the conviction behind it.

Alistair. It all went back to him. In truth, she could have lived with Stroud’s sacrifice in the Fade. He was a grown man, a good man, a brave man. She could have accepted his choice. But it echoed so strongly, so harshly, the sacrifice she wouldn’t accept, would never accept. The mission and the consequence were cold and clear. She had been ready for it. Someone else willfully took it instead.

How was raging at it going to fix anything?

LIVING. Stroud had died so she could keep on doing it. So had Alistair. Was it really serving their sacrifice to retreat into herself?

But then, what was she to do? It was too late to make friends as such. She had been cold and businesslike for too long. She could have had a lover, a husband, a decent man, but she had been too blinded by her self-pity and selfish pride to notice. Had she already blighted what chances she had at intimacy with the people around her?

Well…she wasn’t going to find out just lying in bed, was she?

LIVING. She had faced more fearsome things than that before. And, perhaps, could again.

***

The bare whisper of a step sounded on the stair. Turin set his quill aside and looked up to find none other than Miss Cousland, unarmoured, subtle in a cream gown. Red-eyed and weary, stubbornly upright, with fatigue etched around a mouth that seemed determined never to smile again: but she was here. She had never looked so beautiful as she did then.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” she said. She was clearly ill at ease. “I apologize for the dereliction of my duties. I am ready to return to my responsibilities now, if you will have me.”

So many things vied to be given voice, and so few were permissible. “Anything you wish to offer,” he said at last. “I would ask no more of you.” He stood to give himself time to think, then turned away to face the window and folded his hands behind his back, staring out into the sunlit courtyard. His mind raced without result. He had no right to express his relief, desperately though he wanted to. “I have nothing more to say,” he said thickly. “Only that you acquitted yourself well. If we had lost you in the Fade, or after…that is a blow the Inquisition could not well sustain.”

“The Inquisition is you,” said Miss Cousland. “And you would have survived without me.”

“The Inquisition is work,” he said impatiently. “You…” What could he say that would not be unwelcome? “You are a friend. And you told me once to seek those out and keep them. I would be a poor ally indeed if I did not come for you when you were in danger.”

“I don’t mean to make a habit of it,” she said. Still prickly. Still not letting him unburden himself. Then again, she wasn’t obligated to. “But there is something I must tell you.”

“What is it?”

“Has anyone else who entered the Fade told you about the vision we saw?”

“Me and Corypheus. Yes, Mr. Solas told me all about it.”

“Good. Did it restore your memory?”

“No. I only know what he told me.” Turin shifted, suddenly uncomfortable under the gaze behind him. “It was humbling, to say the least, to know it was not Andraste’s hand guiding me.”

“You still are what you need to be,” she said. “Count on that.” She fell silent, leaving a pause wherein he lacked the strength to turn around. Finally she spoke again. “I am relieved that the Fade affair concluded quickly, Mr. Trevelyan. Perhaps the ordeal makes the work ahead less threatening by comparison.”

“I shall not tolerate threats,” he said, and didn’t dare to look at her. “Least of all to you.”

She hesitated. He wondered what she was thinking, whether she knew just how much feeling he was suppressing to make room for these inadequate words. If she did, surely she would push him away again.

And she did. “I shall endeavour not to impose on your kindness again,” she said crisply. “Good day, Mr. Trevelyan.”

He kept staring out the window because it kept him from begging her to stay. The scene outside seemed colorless, in spite of the sun. Her footsteps receded, and he let her go.

***

Fionne took one look at the long table and stopped cold. The open spot was next to Mr. Hawke. The very sight of it recalled his unwelcome arms around her, dragging her from her duty. No amount of polite flirtation could erase that.

“Lady Josephine.” Fionne leaned in beside the resident diplomat. “Lady Josephine, please. I cannot possibly sit beside Mr. Hawke.”

“But why not? He so enjoys…oh.” Lady Josephine took the measure of Fionne’s face and set about to thinking. “I did not realize. But the table is so full…here. I shall take your seat there if you take my seat here.”

Fionne cast a cautious look at Lady Cassandra. Lady Cassandra nodded with a small smile of welcome. Fionne, desperately grateful for the chance, slid in to the seat Lady Josephine vacated.

“Tell him–” said Fionne. “Tell him I bear him no ill will. I just wish to save us both some confusion.”

“I shall.” Lady Josephine had never looked quite so angelic as she did when she went to rescue Fionne from that very confusion. Dangerous she was, but her brand of kindness was forever welcome.

With Lady Cassandra and Captain Rutherford Fionne was glad to talk business. Even a few days’ absence left a great deal to catch up on. She was glad to find that Captain Rutherford’s morale was high and Lady Cassandra was satisfied with the state of the troops – and the direction of the Inquisition. This was, at any rate, preferable to speaking with the man who had forced her hand in the Fade.

She slowly became aware of an undercurrent between the two, a matter of quickly hidden looks and subtly double-edged words. It seemed to fluster Captain Rutherford and surprise Lady Cassandra. Fionne, not knowing what to make of it, answered the surface level of the conversation and left it at that.

***

A less self-centred man? One who looked beyond usefulness? It was little to go on, but Turin had no choice but to try. To earn back her favour, if he had ever had it at all, was the foremost thought in his mind. He could not send her into danger again without at least trying.

But trying what? Because he could not go to her, he went to everyone else.

“Lord Pavus,” said Turin, startled to see the debonair Tevinter leaving the tavern.

“Lord Inquisitor!” Lord Pavus said brightly. “I didn’t expect to see you shadow this particular doorway. Fine day for a drink, wouldn’t you say?”

His optimism was infectious. “It is, at that.”

“And fine company I was just leaving. Good day, Lord Inquisitor!”

“Mr. Trevelyan is sufficient.”

Lord Pavus raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Trevelyan. Wonders never cease.” And he left with a spring in his step.

Turin proceeded into the labyrinthine Herald’s Rest. A folk song in a haunting voice insinuated itself into the cramped spaces. Turin rounded a corner and the Iron Bull, all the great blue broadcloth wall of him, stepped smoothly aside.

“Inquisitor,” he said jovially. “Crisis in the tavern?”

“I should hope not,” he said. “Actually I was hoping to speak with you. Are the Chargers still in the area?”

“First day off in two weeks? Not that I don’t love the work, but yes, they’ll be here.” He took a small bow and took the lead, conducting Turin back and around into a comfortably furnished room with two large barrels in the corner.

The disreputable – Turin hastily corrected himself, in the interest of diplomacy – the varied crowd turned as one to look at him. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he said, scanning their faces and realizing that they were mostly waiting for the Iron Bull. “I only properly let you once, and we were under difficulties at the time. I thought I might renew the acquaintance.”

“Chargers, you hear that?” The men and women lounging nearest seemed to prick up their ears. “The Inquisitor’s thirsty.”

“Hey, Inquisitor.” It was the lieutenant Krem, knocking the wall for a barmaid even as he nodded in Turin’s direction. “I heard you killed a dragon without us.”

“You were holding the Dales together at the time, as I recall,” said Turin. “I can certainly tell you about her.” Somebody pushed a mug into his hands. The contents tasted good. He settled in a chair that someone else nudged his way and started talking.

And it was good, and there was laughter, and there were interested questions, but eventually he realized that something was wrong. He was making them listen. Exclusively. Coughing, he started turning people’s questions back upon them, learning what it was that made the Chargers proud, made them a team.

And they were charming, and engaging, and only hours later did Turin realize, over a thick rack of boar ribs, that he had spent most of the day here. It wasn’t such a bad way to spend the time. Not at all.


	28. Polite Company in Polite Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Solas gives his opinion on Mr. Trevelyan’s mercies, Mr. Trevelyan seeks to mend bridges (a little late, wouldn’t you say?), Miss Cousland encounters a startling visitor (startling to her in particular?), and the Inquisition begins to prepare for the summit at Halamshiral. (What will come to light then?)

The matter of the Wardens and their complicity in the demon-summoning scheme had to be put to rest, publicly and decisively.

Mr. Solas bowed his head and turned away from the proceedings before Mr. Trevelyan had finished dictating his terms. Fionne had to give up her hidden vantage point when the elf nearly ran over her in the corridor.

“Oh,” she said, noting the gathering clouds in his expression. “You are not pleased with the Inquisitor’s judgment?” she said, hoping that the substance would distract him from her unseemly lurking.

Mr. Solas gave it grave consideration. “The Inquisitor has a gift for giving corrupt organizations both the resources and the freedom they require.”

Incredible. He had heard Fionne’s reports, and had surely been someplace that was saved by the Wardens during the Blight. Even the Fade would not have saved him forever. Gratitude seemed like the very least of appropriate responses. Was this really the sort of thing he was thinking when he kept his peace in polite company? “You would see the Grey Wardens disbanded.”

He inclined his head. “Their blindness brought them and others only grief. Whatever institution they thought they served, it was twisted beyond recognition and they twisted with it rather than see the truth.”

“An attitude you seem to take to several organizations, Templars included.”

“Templars,” Mr. Solas said distinctly, “included.” He looked back out at the judgment hall and the standing soldiers.

“Then should we stand alone?” pressed Fionne. “Never join in common cause, trust no one who crosses our path?”

He had gentlemanly gravity and disquieting eyes. “That would appear to have been your solution, in the time between the Blight War and your recent re-initiation to the Wardens.”

“I was alone,” Fionne said hotly. “I had no recourse, no companionship, no shared experience. All I had was a legend. It made poor company. How could that life be any more than a shadow of better things?”

“Ah.” Mr. Solas seemed much affected, and Fionne wondered why she had been so forward. He must surely think the less of her for it. “You speak from the heart.”

“There is little left for me to hide,” she said miserably.

“On the contrary. There is much history that you keep to yourself. And there is what you intend to write tomorrow.” Mr. Solas drew himself up and bowed. “With or without the Wardens.”

“With,” she said firmly. “I know where I stand.”

“If you can see that they know it as well, perhaps they will improve this time. I wish you luck.” He slipped past her and vanished down the stairs, leaving nothing but Mr. Trevelyan’s voice in the great hall behind.

She had only to consider one more question. Mr. Blackwall, too, stood with the Wardens, yet seemed insensible to every feeling a Warden was subject to. Perhaps it was relative inexperience; he had never known a Blight. Perhaps…what? Why would any normal man impersonate a Grey Warden? It carried no prestige, no profit. And it would be the height of discourtesy to ask after all he had done. Everyone here had a past, herself included.

So she didn’t. Behind her, judgment rolled on.

***

Turin went hunting after supper. He found his quarry in the hallway next to a sideboard in the hallway laden with sweets. When Turin entered he evidently startled both Lady Josephine and Hawke.

There was nothing for it but to start. “Lady Josephine. Mr. Hawke, I…owe you an apology.”

Hawke’s eyes darted to Lady Josephine and back. “You do?”

“I gave you a very cold welcome to the Inquisition at a time when you had come a very long way to help. It was foolish of me.”

Hawke seemed to study him, dark eyes utterly intent. “I never know when someone is hiding more than they’re showing,” he said slowly. “That weakness has led me to grief before.”

Patience, Turin cautioned himself. Patience. “You came to us in good faith. Let me at least admit that I know that now.”

“I accept your apology,” said Hawke. “Was there a request to go with it?”

“Only what you’re willing to give. You proved at the Approach that your skill with the blade would be an asset to any fight. And your prestige – particularly among the Templars – may also be of use. If you wish to tip the scales of history again, I can think of no better place for you.”

It was the wrong thing to say, even though Mr. Hawke promptly hid his consternation. “I never tipped scales. Only watched them sink.”

“You can change that here.”

Hawke frowned. “I believe you,” he said. “Perhaps we can start again.”

“I would like to.” Doubly so if his attentions were for Lady Josephine, not Miss Cousland. “Welcome to Skyhold. Whether you’re here to fight or rest. Or search for things lost.”

“Not lost,” Mr. Hawke said warmly. “Only temporarily misplaced.”

“May it be so.” Turin bowed slightly to Lady Josephine and then left the two of them in peace.

***

Rifts still existed in increasingly far-flung regions of the world. They had closed a recent rift near the end of the day and made camp in place. Feeling an intense need for solitude and air, especially away from the Inquisitor, Fionne rose in the night to find a secluded spot.

She stumbled into a clearing only to find someone already there. In an instant her sabre was in her hand. And yet…and yet…it was not necessary. It could not be necessary.

The person in the clearing was Prince Alistair, the man who had…had…the man who had saved the world. Her recollection of the details was distant and perhaps immaterial. He was here now.

“Fionne?” Only he had the right to use her first name. It was music to her ears. “Fionne. Maker’s breath, I thought I’d lost you.”

“Never,” she said honestly, and then recalled herself with a bitter sting. She let the impossible apparition close the distance between them. She stared into his dear familiar eyes. There was a time when she would have accepted this fantasy. Her freedom and her life she would have counted inconsequential next to the chance to end her days with him. Yes, once she would have taken his offer and called herself lucky. The whole world seemed to urge her towards it.

“What’s wrong?” he said softly, worry edging in on but not replacing the smile in his eyes. “I’m right here. We’re here. Why are you looking at me like this?”

“Because,” she said. “Now I have something to live for.”

She raised her sword and made an end of it. The desire demon passed away on the wind, and Fionne was once again alone. Alone, but standing self-sufficient.

***

“I’m going to ask a question, Leliana,” said Fionne. “And you must promise not to laugh.”

“Anything,” said Sister Leliana.

“Do I…do I fill out this dress properly?”

It was a construction in the Fereldan style, tight in the bodice, tapered in the skirt, brave in red and gold, warm to suit the season, with a high neckline sprinkled with jewels. Fionne didn’t trust it, but she had been going back and forth with the tailor for weeks, far more attention than she should have spent on it, and she was desperate to have the question settled.

“Very well,” Leliana said soothingly. “I think you will fit right in with us.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Oh, nothing special.”

“Everything with you is special. You just don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s not nearly as restrained as you.” Leliana smiled demurely. “You’ll see.”

“I admit Lady Josephine’s admonitions have me anxious. This invitation is a crucial one. The Empress and her former commander in one place? My only experiences of Orlais have been small dinner parties where everyone is on more or less good terms. What if I do something wrong? What if I insult Empress Celene or antagonize Duke Gaspard? What if I forget that the Orlesians so barbarically switched the order of the salad and main course forks? What if everybody has lace kerchiefs except me? – Even if the lace part is useless and so I won’t have it on mine. What if I need my musket?”

“Fionne, you’re worrying too much. What’s bothering you?”

What if she made a fool of herself in front of Mr. Trevelyan? She wanted nothing more than to restore normal relations. To sabotage his efforts now would be unforgivable. She knew this. “I don’t like parties,” she said. It wasn’t strictly true but it would do.

***

The event was nothing short of peace talks between the Empress Celene and her cousin Duke Gaspard, who had been warring over a country that needed stability now more than ever. Corypheus would devour a country divided given the least opportunity; the Inquisition had to deny him that opportunity. The Inquisition delegation was enormous: Captain Rutherford, Lady Josephine, Sister Leliana, Inquisitor Trevelyan, Miss Cousland, Madame Vivienne, and Lady Cassandra. Lord Pavus had declined the invitation on the grounds of not wanting to be the day’s curiosity just then, and Master Tethras muttered something about nobles and walked off. Miss Sera was rejected out of hand.

Lady Josephine fairly hummed with anxiety while she explained the situation to Turin. “The Grand Duke is only too happy to have us at the ball as his guests, so our invitation comes from him. Whether we act as his allies or upset the balance of power, he gains an opportunity, if not a clear advantage.”

“I understand.” Turin’s head fairly spun with the complexity of the situation as Lady Josephine had explained it on the way. He hoped that showing up and being charming while his allies went to work would be enough.

Inside the grand palace of Halamshiral he moved from party to party, chattering and questioning, acutely aware that his order of wandering would be marked and evaluated. He was relieved when the bell rang to signify the beginning of the dance in the grand ballroom. Miss Cousland appeared beside him, a steadying presence. However he had not made it three steps into the ballroom when he heard a distinctive voice from above. 

“Well, well. What have we here?”


	29. Less Polite Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Inquisition faces Celene, Gaspard, and Halamshiral, meet a witch, and struggle to shape the future.

Walking down the stairs, graceful in her Orlesian finery, was an unmasked woman, black-haired, yellow-eyed, red-lipped and smiling like a cat.

“Miss Morrigan,” said Fionne, her horizons shrunk suddenly to a circle containing only the two combatants. “You’ve come far.”

“As have you.” Her eyes danced. “I never thought you a climber, but the Inquisition has prospects far beyond a mere kingdom.”

“You are no lady,” said Fionne in a blaze she could not suppress.

“Ah, but I have been granted such a title,” returned Lady Morrigan with a silken smirk. “But come, I did not seek you out for a battle. There are dark intents shadowing this evening’s party. And in the end I believe you and I hunt…the same prey?”

“Venatori,” said Mr. Trevelyan. “Here to assassinate the Empress and destabilize the empire. We cannot allow that to happen.”

“I tend to agree with you,” said Lady Morrigan. “As her occult advisor, I must go to her side to protect her. Tracking down the conspiracy I leave to you.”

“You always have a reason to leave before the end, don’t you?” said Fionne.

“I always see the larger Game.” Lady Morrigan dangled a key, which a perplexed-looking Mr. Trevelyan accepted. Then she spun and floated on her way.

“Miss Cousland,” Mr. Trevelyan said quietly. “She has offended you?”

“Old history, and best forgotten. Come. She had no reason to lie about the Venatori.”

Mr. Trevelyan promptly went toward the guest quarters, presumably to hand the key to Sister Leliana. Fionne herself drifted to the gallery overlooking the dance hall. The colours here were overwhelming, floating amidst the gleam of precious metals and glitter of gems. It was a life she had been groomed for since she was a girl, right up until the death of her parents and her conscription as a Grey Warden. In a way she still regretted that change. And yet, all these colours seemed empty. It lacked the substance of a fight, the purpose of a cause. She had strayed away from this world. She was probably better for it.

She heard the scuff of feet before Mr. Trevelyan appeared beside her. He showed to good advantage in the red and blue finery Lady Josephine had procured. Not, she reminded herself resolutely, that she would notice.

“Miss Cousland.” She tried to lead by example, looking absorbed in the dancers below, but his eyes were only for her. “Would you dance with me?”

She started and turned to him. “Mr. Trevelyan, this is hardly the time.”

“I can think of none better. Here are no rifts and no mortal danger, for once. Our only task here is to blend in. Shall we not then do so?”

It was impossible. “I d-don’t know this song.” She cursed herself for the stutter.

He stepped closer and reached out, not quite touching her on either side. “Follow me.”

Against that invitation, what could she do? She accepted his lead. The Orlesian style was not like that of home. For one thing Mr. Trevelyan’s hand slid to the small of her back and stayed firmly in place while he drew her out to the balcony. For another he was staring into her eyes as if all the answers of the evening could be found there. Her expression must have betrayed her distress, but he never hesitated, guiding her around the balcony with movements so close to her own that she could scarcely tell where she ended and he began.

His face, too, was slowly lowering toward hers, his grey eyes pale and fascinating. She could face down a pride demon in full fettle, but this was another matter entirely. Burning, she looked off to the side and tried without success not to feel the rhythm between them. Where had this come from? Had they not both sworn off it to attend to their duties? Why must he be as accomplished in dancing as in the art of war?

They stood in a frozen moment, faces close enough to touch. And then, she realized, it was over. She dared a peek at Mr. Trevelyan’s eyes, steady above those fascinating lips. He was still staring at her. Slowly he took both her hands in his. “Thank you, Miss Cousland,” he said huskily, and turned away.

Just then a shriek sounded from the garden below. “Assassins! Someone, help!”

Mr. Trevelyan drew his sword and, evidently ready to change subjects, jumped without hesitation straight off the balcony. Fionne, arranging her skirts to minimize the impact of the fall, followed. The rustle of masked intruders was a welcome followup to the considerably more confusing song she had just danced through.

***

The Orlesian’s gesticulations nearly dislodged his mask. “I heard there’s fighting in the servants’ corridors! Assassins! Qunari, maybe!”

Madame Vivienne fanned herself with the particular angle and depth that suggested amused dismissal. “Now,” she said, “I don’t believe anything will succeed in interrupting these efforts. Rumours may overturn a crown, but not, I think, tonight.”

The gossiper looked chastened. “You’re right, of course, Madame.”

“I know. Now, you were just telling me about that trade route’s needs for guards…perhaps, should we reach an understanding, Inquisition guards?” Madame Vivienne looked aside to a pale-looking newcomer and fairly radiated calm in her direction. “Do try not to panic, my dear. Come speak with the civilized for a while.”

Let Sister Leliana handle covert matters and the Lord Inquisitor play the conspicuous figurehead. Madame Vivienne could deal the Inquisition a great deal of good in this comfortable home.

***

“Lady Josephine. Lady Montilyet.” Hawke bowed equally low for each woman. He thought he heard distant shouts, but some among the Inquisition must stay to keep up appearances. Besides which he wanted to be within fighting distance of Lady Josephine, should it come to that. “I would beg a word with you,” he said to the elder sister.

The younger Lady Montilyet made a delighted moue under her golden half-mask and giggled. The elder gave her a warning look, but allowed Hawke to draw her away. The red dress she had chosen, with its brave blue sash, looked enchanting, her bare arms and neck equally so. She seemed to glow as he drew her into an alcove. Were people listening? In Orlais the walls had ears. But this was the last chance he would have. He had let the others slip by, too conflicted to act before now.

“Lady Josephine,” he said. “You may have heard, and I regret that I did not tell you sooner. But I’m leaving the Inquisition after tonight.”

“I know,” said Lady Josephine, with composure limned by a trembling something.

“I was glad to meet your sister. And to see you in your natural element.”

She smiled her heart-tugging smile. “Mr. Hawke. My natural element is wherever I am needed.”

“And for that – for many things – I admire you. I had wondered…”

“Yes?”

“I must find my own family, or what’s left of it. My sister is out there, somewhere, with the Wardens or without. I need to know what happened. I need to get her out of whatever trouble she’s in.”

“I understand. Forgive the word, but she could ask for no better champion.”

She said it without venom. So few people did. “I only hope it’s enough.”

“I shall continue my inquiries with the allies of the Inquisition. If she is in Orlais or Ferelden she cannot possibly be missed. If she is in the Free Marches…my efforts continue.”

“For which I thank you an hundred times.”

“Our inquiries range further every day,” she said hurriedly. “We search in all directions, at the centre of the greatest intelligence network on Thedas. And if she is hidden somewhere safe, you risking yourself on the roads cannot be justified. Besides this, I am awaiting a response from a contact in Starkhaven who has much knowledge of the Marches and their populace. He may reply any day now. Mr. Hawke,” and suddenly her voice was soft and her dark eyes wide, “I beg you to…consider staying?”

“Lady Josephine…” The thought felt like home, a feeling he had not known in years. Miss Bethany was out there, somewhere, perhaps alone, perhaps in danger. Maybe his eyes were the only ones that would be able to discern her. But if the Inquisition had informants in the Free Marches, Skyhold would be the first place to know about it. And it would be so very pleasant to rest, if only for a little while. His heart ached, trapped between what was and what might be, but he could say only one thing. “Very well. I shall wait on the news from Starkhaven. You must promise to tell me every word.”

“Everything I have,” she said softly. “I shall.”

“I must go assist the Inquisitor now. Stay here. Charm everyone. You cannot help but do so.”

“Be careful, Mr. Hawke.”

“I mean to.”

***

The intrigues of Halamshiral ran from room to room, from shuttered gallery to shuttered gallery, from garden to ballroom and back. The Inquisition played as a team, one or two vanishing at a time then returning to report. Spies, assassins, liars and knaves passed amidst the party guests and into secluded corners of the Winter palace. The talk was all of Celene, the heirless empress; Gaspard, the war-making cousin who carried the favor of Orlais’ chevaliers; and Briala, the elven spymistress whose origin was still uncertain to the bulk of the human guests but who moved in a trail of choice rumours. 

Over the course of discovery and discussion Turin found his mind changing. He needed to keep Orlais stable to oppose Corypheus, yes. But Celene had named no heir in all this time, and seemed happy to keep a status quo that left her in power…indefinitely? Gaspard was a man of action, ready to promise support to the Inquisition, and besides would have the full support of the military. With a wife and child he would be ideal, and he expressed no hesitation to agree. Briala had ambition in shocking quantity but no credibility with the nobles of the court. 

The hours ticked by, and Turin resolved that in the end Gaspard was the better investment for more than just the Inquisition.

And it was so. And Gaspard’s sister betrayed the empress, and Turin stood and let his heart block his throat rather than moving to stop her. Not until she turned on Gaspard himself. He left that night with the most powerful alliance he had made yet. This was the Game in all its ugliness. He hoped he would not be asked to play again for some time to come.


	30. Where We Call Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland and Sister Leliana discuss the dance (I should think so), Lady Morrigan appears at Skyhold, Lord Pavus gets some troublesome correspondence, and Sister Leliana has words with Mr. Hawke.

Fionne walked straight past Sister Leliana to the windowsill in the Skyhold tower and leaned heavily on it. “It’s settled. Gaspard and all he represents.”

“It will make Orlais stronger,” said Leliana. “Mr. Trevelyan was not wrong about that.”

Fionne covered her face. “Don’t let’s talk about him.”

Leliana was all innocence. “Why? The two of you made a distraction that I could take advantage of. Besides which I thought you made a picturesque pair.”

“Don’t torment me so! I only acquiesced to be polite. Now – now I don’t know which way is up anymore.”

“It’s very simple, Fionne. If you could care for him, then resistance does you no credit. If you could not, a definite refusal would set you both free.”

“Leliana, I realize your experience of love is somewhat more liberal than mine. I beg you not to make light of something so acutely important.”

“What if he had kissed you? What then?”

Fionne felt weak at the knees. They had been so close, so terrifyingly close, while the laws of the world hung uselessly at a distance. “I would have run,” she said faintly. “Run and never looked back. He would have faced those assassins alone and I wouldn’t even be there to know if he lived or died. Maker’s breath, Leliana, I still don’t know whether to run or stay. Thedas needs us to stand together, but – I don’t know if I can bear it.”

“You sound like you’re in love.”

“And what if I am?” she cried wretchedly. “It’s too late, I saw to that myself. I blamed him for all the faults I saw at once instead of the virtues I saw unfolding over time, thinking them unimportant compared with my own self-pity. After the humiliation I heaped upon him, he could never want me.”

Leliana leaned forward in what Fionne instantly recognized as preparation for a killing blow. “If that is the case,” she said sweetly, “why did he ask you to dance?”

***

“Lady Morrigan,” said Miss Cousland.

“Miss Cousland,” purred Lady Morrigan.

“You appear to have gotten lost.”

“Am I? Oh, my. ‘Tis true, I meant to reach Skyhold…did I find myself in one of the other overly populated ancient fastnesses of the Havenvale wilds? No? Then I must be at Skyhold.”

“Yes,” said Miss Cousland. “But why.”

Turin felt at this point that he had adequate cause to join in on this conversation taking place over his desk. “Emperor Gaspard has loaned us the expertise of his occult advisor,” he said. “In token of his goodwill.”

“We can do without her,” said Miss Cousland. Her face was frozen in something harder than she usually reserved for her most despised enemies. Part of Turin wanted to wait and watch the conflagration. Part of him wanted to run in the other direction.

Lady Morrigan opened her tawny eyes wide. “Oh, you could refuse the gracious gesture granted you by your latest and most powerful ally, out of hand, from personal dislike…but the question is, will you?”

“Mr. Trevelyan,” said Miss Cousland, “Lady Morrigan has a great deal of skill and stature. She is also opportunistic, heartless, self-centred, deceptive, deadly, and focused on nothing but her own advancement.”

“Oh,” murmured Morrigan, “and how is that mirror treating you?”

Miss Cousland’s colour was rising apace. “You shouldn’t be allowed mirrors,” she said scathingly. 

Lady Morrigan’s composure wavered for the smallest moment, but then the smile on her stained lips returned, lazy and confident. “Regardless,” she said, this time to Turin, “I shall not demand much of your time. Inform me when you are ready to discuss the Inquisition’s next move. And, if you have to…” her eyes slid back over towards Miss Cousland… “bring a muzzle.”

With that she saw herself out.

Turin stood. “Miss Cousland, I – I had no idea. I am so sorry for her behaviour, there is no excuse, simply no excuse!”

“Ah,” she said, blushing now while she looked off to one side, “but she stung me to words just as harsh. Lady Morrigan has a talent for bringing out the worst in people – then picking up the pieces and running with them.” She brought her eyes back to meet his. There was nothing of softness in them. “Beware lest she do it to us.”

***

The Chantry mother had worked wonders in tending to the hurt and the faithful of Skyhold. Yet she made very few requests to Turin, a state of affairs that left him content. On this late winter’s day she sought Turin out while he inspected the latest shipment of wines. 

“Inquisitor,” she said in her velvety accent. “I have a message of some importance. It relates to the Tevinter.”

Turin had to think a moment before he recalled Lord Pavus’ origin. “What is it, pray tell?”

“It is a message from his father, Magister Halward Pavus. He wishes to arrange a meeting.”

“Then why not ask him yourself?”

She looked pained. “Lord Pavus would not accept a message from his father. If you can bring him in secret to Redcliffe, a family retainer will make all further arrangements.” She withdrew a letter from her robes and handed it over. “Your reputation can suffer no further than it already has for your association with him.”

“Reputation? With him? I pray you recall yourself.”

“Ah,” said the Chantry mother, eyeing him with some distaste. “Of course.”

He went at once to Lord Pavus. It was a matter of honour. Dissembling was alien to him, and he meant to keep it that way. Besides, it might impress the flamboyant luminary; it might be of benefit. “Lord Pavus, I have received the most troubling correspondence.”

Lord Pavus set down his book. “What, did someone decide to levy taxes on Skyhold? We’d never raise the money for it.”

“Maker, I hope not. No, it relates to you. To your family, specifically.” He had Lord Pavus’s full attention after that. He laid out the request in unvarnished terms. “I leave it entirely to you whether to indulge this.”

Lord Pavus, for once, did not smile. “Exactly what response did he expect?” he said slowly.

“He did not expect you to know. Mother Giselle asked me not to tell you.”

Lord Pavus’s eyes sparked. “You, forgive me for observing, obviously did.”

“You deserved to know. If you are to spring a trap, I would prefer you do so with your eyes open.”

“How uncommonly kind.”

“Lord Pavus, you and I have fallen far from the tree, perhaps intentionally. Yet if a hand is offered in good faith...would it be so wrong to grant an audience?”

“You do not understand my father, Inquisitor.” Lord Pavus sighed. “But I shall speak to his retainer. I take it you’re not interested in coming along.”

Was he so negligent? “If you require company on the road?”

“Well. Perhaps I can wave the Lord Inquisitor in the retainer’s face until he’s too impressed to do anything.”

The story Lord Pavus unfolded on the road, by way of preparation in Turin’s eyes, was scarcely to be believed. That Lord Pavus had grown up in Tevinter was common knowledge, and that he had matured into a high noble of excellent breeding who preferred the company of men, was also widely known. Yet evidently that did not sit well with the class of magisters most interested in continuing fertile magical lines. His father foremost among them.

Lord Pavus was to be married to a woman of good breeding and impeccable magical ability. He refused. It was then that his father, long a critic of blood magic, decided to relax his magical strictures long enough to alter Lord Pavus’s very preferences.

“It didn’t work,” Turin said raptly.

“Obviously,” said Lord Pavus. “Unless his secret objective was to eject the embarrassment that was me from the country, in which case, he was a brilliant success.”

“I’m sorry,” said Turin.

“Nothing you could have done.” Lord Pavus took a deep breath. “Come. Let’s disappoint the family servant.”

But the man who met them in the Redcliffe tavern was no retainer. It was a distinguished-looking nobleman that Lord Pavus introduced as his own father.

Turin stayed silent. Father and son spoke. It was a brief conversation; the father seemed conciliatory but not remorseful. His effort at contact now felt far too little, far too late. And in the end, both Lord Pavuses fell bitterly silent.

“You don’t have to follow in his footprints,” said Turin. “Especially when they trample you.”

“I know that,” said Lord Pavus. “And I did find my own way. I joined the Inquisition because it’s the right thing to do. Once I had a father who would have known that.”

Turin, having nothing more helpful to do, swung into step behind Lord Pavus and followed him into the blinding sunlight.

“Well, that was bracing,” said Lord Pavus, unconvincingly. He vaulted onto his horse and squinted at some unspecified horizon. “Shall we?”

“Lord Pavus, that was a very long way to go…in more than one sense…just because you prefer men.”

“Because preferring men makes me imperfect, in a world that tolerates only perfection.”

“I’m glad we live in a roomier world than that.”

They continued in companionable silence for a period of some miles. Turin attributed this uncharacteristic silence to Lord Pavus’s distress over his encounter.

But Lord Pavus raised his chin from his chest and said, “You’re not half the bastard I thought you were.”

“Lord Pavus! For shame!” And yet his sentiment was not wholly unjustified. And, in truth, he was relieved to hear a topic that wasn’t brooding. Turin laughed. “Don’t change.”

The smile was a relief, albeit a small one. Lord Pavus spoke with something of his customary swagger. “Remain forever frozen in a state of infantile recklessness, is that it?”

“Do it enthusiastically enough, you’ll start a craze.”

Turin thought Lord Pavus was grateful for the change of subject. “I can’t wait.”

***

“There you are. I am so glad we have this time to talk.”

Hawke started. Sister Leliana stood beside him on the battlements like an apparition of some dire portent. Her silvery chainmail overcoat glistened in the thin sunlight. So did her deep-set eyes.

He pushed away from the railing and made a little bow. “Sister Leliana. What can one humble wanderer do for you?”

“It’s not for me. I had understood that you were leaving to seek your sister.”

“I was persuaded to stay, at least until certain inquiries into the Free Marches were answered.”

“Is that the only reason?” Leliana said pointedly. 

“The only one that matters,” said he.

A definite chill. “Then your intentions toward Lady Josephine do not matter?”

Hawke started. “My intentions? I was not aware I was watched so closely.”

“Lady Josephine is a strong and intelligent woman. She is also a novice in the ways of love. I would not see her toyed with by a temporary visitor.”

“Toyed with! Lady Josephine! I beg you to consider the absurdity of that statement. Only a fool would think it, and Lady Josephine knows very well how to detect fools.”

“Then you admit to some partiality?”

“Admit! I could not deny it. Perhaps you think me a fly-by-night rogue, or a knave of some description, but believe me when I say that my attachment to Lady Josephine is very real.”

“But you will leave.”

“I stay because she asked me to. When the time comes I shall leave – must leave. If the Maker is listening I shall return with my sister, with whatever of my fortune I can still secure to myself – if I return it will be, if it be her will, for good.”

Sister Leliana tilted her head. Her hood shifted in a whisper. “I know about Warden Anders.”

Something cold and hard stiffened Hawke’s spine. “Everyone knows about Anders, Sister.” And no polite person would bring it up.

“No. About you and him.”

The affair left him feeling exhausted, even in passing memory. “I never tried to hide it.”

“What happened to him will not happen again.”

The memories came upon Hawke faster than he could will them away. “Do you think I didn’t try to save him? Do you think you know anything about what happened before I came here? I loved Anders!” Leliana’s cold face stayed unmoved. She was judging him, even now. Overwhelmed by the old bitterness Hawke swung for the nearest thing, which was a stone crenellation, and hit it hard. “I loved him, and he tried to burn us both with innocents for his cause. Do you think that will happen again? Can you even begin to compare someone as pure, as kind as Lady Josephine, with the thing Anders and his Justice became?” He opened his hand. It stung, just as it should. “Do you think I have forgotten what it is to love something unambiguously good?”

“Have you?”

“Give me the chance!” He mastered his breath, or tried. “Let her give me that chance. I swear I shall not disappoint.”

“You speak with conviction,” said Leliana, “I can grant you that. I shall not interfere until the moment she is distressed for any reason.”

“I shall not allow that moment to come to pass. Is that all you wanted from me, Sister Leliana?”

She studied him a moment longer. “Yes,” she said at last. “I am satisfied.”

“Then I,” he said, “am going to bandage my hand. Good-night, Sister.” He resolved to let no further shadows of the night interrupt him or his thoughts.


	31. Domesticity, of a Sort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Trevelyan surprises everyone with an appearance, Miss Sera seeks to force the issue with Mr. Trevelyan and Miss Cousland (just how does she meant to do that?), and Lord Pavus has words with the Iron Bull.

The trestle table down the centre of the tavern was as crowded as Turin had ever seen it. It was Wednesday night and the figures of the Inquisition were gathered for Wicked Grace.

He only knew that by reputation, of course. He had never been before.

He ducked into the doorway as though trying to hide from one side or the other. The thought forced him to pause and summon up a little spirit. Then he sauntered to one end of the table, between Master Tethras and Lady Josephine, in a poor impression of casual movement. The table fell silent anyway.

“Is there room,” he said, feeling his cheeks flush, “or do I need to get thinner first?”

Lady Josephine started the motion down the bench, which everyone else took up. Turin settled in the space she had opened for him. 

“Told you,” Master Tethras said to Lord Pavus.

“I’m still not convinced this isn’t an optical illusion,” said Lord Pavus, but he was taking out his purse to withdraw a Tevinter crown and deposit it in Master Tethras’s open hand.

“I’ve entirely forgotten how to play,” lied Turin. “Go easy on me.”

Iron Bull choked on something. Lord Pavus clapped him hard on the back until he had regained his composure. “Sure thing, Boss,” he mumbled.

And with that promising prologue, he began.

Lord Pavus was an extravagant better, just enough of the time to let everyone else underestimate him. Master Tethras was cool-headed and sly. Lady Cassandra was hesitant but childishly gleeful when she won. Captain Rutherford played badly and lost with grace. Warden Blackwall managed to maintain his usual borderline grimness with absolute aplomb through good hands and bad all evening long. Lady Josephine chattered and laughed and won most of the time. Sera flitted in and out, seemingly bored but very loud when Master Tethras neglected to deal her in. The Iron Bull talked more than he seemed to listen but had a vicious streak of calling people’s bluffs. It was, all in all, as far from the rigours of the field as could be imagined, and Turin was surprised to realize that these people got along in more than just field outings and Sunday dinners.

Hours, a few good stories, several very good ales, and multiple gold crowns later, Turin finally stood. The table was down to five and Lady Josephine was still smiling like the demurest of cats behind her mountain of gold. His pockets could take little more of this treatment and he said as much.

“Next week, though,” said Master Tethras. “Same time, same place.”

“Same band of brigands,” said Turin. “I’ll be there.” 

***

It is a fact endemic to large and heavily populated facilities that some necessities end up stored more obscurely than others. Fionne had spent many an hour combing corridors for specific items of need, and even so there were places she had never found.

“Miss Sera?”

“Yeah?”

Fionne gathered her skirts and brushed a bonnet ribbon clear of her face. “I didn’t even know this corridor was here.”

“Sure.” The tow-headed elf gestured generally. “Had to get fixed up so’s the floor over the war room would stay in one piece. It’s all storage now. Nobody wants to look at it, nice place to leave things.”

“And why exactly are you leading me up where nobody wants to look?”

“Hey. I don’t tell you how to do your job.”

Fionne was never certain how much of their communication difficulty was inherent in Sera’s social station and how much was her intent. “But you’d be fully justified in asking why I do it.”

“Ugh. Not the point. Here. There’s a door. All right? Problem behind it, Miss Cousland’s got to fix before we all go batty. Go on and get, some, social, intercourse.” Sera set a hand on the door and ushered Fionne by.

And shoved her in with unnatural force, and slammed it.

“Miss Sera!” cried Fionne, pushing at the door. Something fell to on the far side, and Fionne heard Sera’s retreating laughter like the knell of the last polite conversation of the day.

“Miss Cousland!” Fionne spun to see Mr. Trevelyan leaping to his feet from some unmarked crate. Even in the gloom he looked a little red-faced, a great deal discomposed. “Was that Miss Sera in the hall?”

“None other. Did she lock you here too?”

“Had I not chosen that moment to stop shouting for help and sit down to think–!”

“Regardless. We are barricaded in now.” And there was only one thing to do, demanded by both propriety and preference. “Is there another way out?”

“Not unless there be some weakness in the roof.” They both looked up at the wooden rafters high above the looming stone walls. There were not supplies enough to stack to reach there even had they something to reach for once they were up.

“Has she taken leave of her senses?” said Fionne. “I can imagine no purpose to forcing us into one another’s company alone save for mischief at best, or scandal at worst.”

He seemed to sigh. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I can see no other purpose than malice.” He busied himself with adjusting his cravat, a somewhat forlorn effort given that his sole audience had far more important things on her mind.

“Hello?” she yelled. “Miss Sera? Someone! Let us out!”

“Let us out,” bayed Mr. Trevelyan, pointedly not looking at Fionne. “Hello?”

“This was a distant corner of the castle,” said Fionne.

“I know,” said Mr. Trevelyan, his grey eyes darting around without settling on anything of use. “Miss Cousland, I swear to you this was no device of mine. I know full well what your opinion of my treatment is and I did not intend to subject you to more of it.”

“Oh,” said Fionne. “Of course. Yes, it can only lead to embarrassment.”

“Quite.”

They shouted again. Whatever natural modesty might have forbidden Fionne from raising her voice now found itself outweighed by the imperative of their position. It was only a little comfort that Mr. Trevelyan was just as strident, with just as evident a desire to see this resolved.

But their throats ran to rasping, and no help came.

Fionne turned back to the door and pushed. No response. She pounded at the door, then put her back to its very edge and pushed again.

“Here,” said Mr. Trevelyan, and walked up so quickly she could not think to do anything but squeak. He set a leg just outside hers, two hands above hers, and started pushing, very nearly touching her at a number of points between, a specimen of muscle that she was utterly unready to face.

“Anything?” he grunted.

“What?” said Fionne. “Oh.” She bit her lip and returned her full weight against the door, pushing with all her will. “Nothing,” she said. Mr. Trevelyan was still horrifically close, and she hoped her exertions would be enough to excuse the stain on her cheeks. “Mr. Trevelyan,” she prompted, staring fixedly at his waistcoat.

“Oh.” He backed away, seeming to avoid her eyes with the same studiousness she devoted to avoiding his. “I apologize, Miss Cousland.”

Their continuing captivity was drawing its bonds closer at every moment, and at every step Mr. Trevelyan was still there, her first time alone with him since their bewildering dance at Halamshiral. Here he had none of that delicacy, that gentle attention, that warmth...

She covered her face hurriedly, curling away from the door. “Forgive me, Mr. Trevelyan.”

“Whatever for?”

She couldn’t face him. No more, it seemed, could she escape. She spun and rammed the heel of her hand into the door’s edge with all her strength. She recoiled at once, her palm bloody, and the door stood unmoved. Inwardly she cursed. She would gain no advantage from losing her nerve. Especially around the one man who seemed capable of straining it.

“Miss Cousland!” Mr. Trevelyan had a kerchief in one hand. “Let me, if you please.” He took her hand and with quick delicate movements wrapped it. She was gathering her strength to object when the mark on his hand sparked, violently, and he bit back some exclamation and let her hand go.

She could no longer forbear “I didn’t know you–” “It’s nothing. Are you–” They both cut short and stood in mutual perplexity. Desperate to cover the silence Fionne essayed again. “I did not mean to–” “Your hand is the more–” They fell silent once more. What did he have to say, about her hand? Was it so important that he would neglect his own? At the same time, was he trying to cover for a very real problem? “If it’s hurting you–” “If you are hurt–”

And, and, and? Would he care? Or was he just filling the space, attempting some comfort – more for his benefit than hers, of course – through polite inquiries? She had rejected him once already. Why continue to try? She flushed and looked away, feeling if anything more mortified than before. “Maybe we’d better start screaming again,” she said.

“Yes,” he said hastily. “Maker, yes.” 

And they shouted until a passing servant let them out.

***

Snow swirled industriously outside the roadside inn. Indoors the Iron Bull, having just come from battle without, was communing with his battleaxe. That is where Lord Pavus found him.

The mage arranged his features in every semblance of distress. “Iron Bull, I have the worst news for you.”

The Qunari looked up from the whetstone. “What might that be, Pavus?”

“Your coat. It’s got a wet gash in it just above your right shoulderblade.”

“You can see that from here, can you?” Iron Bull said dryly.

“I happened to be walking yonder and just noticed it. Really, now that I see it I wonder that you don’t get more. Gashes in your coat.”

“Oh, I do.”

“The expense of replacing that broadcloth work of art must be hideous.”

Iron Bull waved a negligent hand. “I just have Dalish look at it.”

His reference was naturally to the woman who was assuredly not an apostate among the Chargers. “Ah,” said Lord Pavus, “your elven…archer? She must be quite accomplished with her…archery.”

“Cleans the mess up every time,” Iron Bull said cheerfully.

“Then I must come to my second concern.” Lord Pavus looked very serious. “You’ve got a wet gash in your coat just above your right shoulderblade. Haven’t you had anyone look at it?”

“I can tell when a wound’s trouble. This is fine. I thought I’d just walk it off.”

Lord Pavus gestured impatiently. “You always do this! Contrary to the Qun or any other authority, sporting more wounds does not make you a better fighter! Or more of a gentleman.”

“I don’t much care for human notions of gentility,” said Iron Bull. “Or hadn’t you noticed.”

“While I appreciate the perennial availability of your behaviour as a topic of consternation, I wish you wouldn’t do it in quite so life-threatening a way.”

“Lord Pavus.”

“Yes, Iron Bull?”

“What you actually need here is a drink. Come with me.”


	32. A Matter of Interventions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland and Mr. Trevelyan pray (Andrasteans? And why not?), Miss Cousland returns Mr. Trevelyan’s property, Miss Sera antagonizes Lady Cassandra (I’m right here, you know), Miss Cousland confides in Cole, and Miss Cousland misses an opportunity to dance (did Mr. Trevelyan dare ask?)

The safest place to be alone was among the kneeling worshippers before the likeness of Andraste in the Chantry. It was here that Fionne repaired to; not to seek favours but rather to seek peace of mind.

How could she have any, in a world falling apart, a Fade determined to impinge upon the real, and a society that threw her closer than mind or fortitude could bear to someone she needed to keep at a distance?

Once before she had given up on faith. And in that darkness someone had come to her, and life had gone on.

She knelt, closed her eyes, rested her forehead on folded fingers. It was the old pose, submission, readiness for a gift – any gift. Somewhere, Andraste might still be listening. Somewhere, the Maker’s hand was still in the world. It wasn’t orthodoxy but it felt right.

The scuff of a boot from behind her disturbed her. The chapel had emptied. Now Mr. Trevelyan stood in the doorway.

She burst to her feet and began the effort to walk clear of him while still reaching the door.

“No! I did not mean to disturb you.”

“It’s all right, I was finished.”

“Please. I know how much this means to you.”

He was blocking her way, but more importantly he seemed genuinely troubled. Fionne tilted her head. “Do you believe?”

Mr. Trevelyan grimaced. “I thought I did. Then I found out I just assumed. It’s not exactly the same thing.” She continued her attitude of attentive listening. He resumed. ”I had believed He marked me. Now I know that is not true. But He sustains me in other ways, not least in the company I fell into. So yes. I believe.”

“I was not so steadfast as that in crisis. But that was a long time ago.”

He cast his eyes toward Andraste’s statue. “And you have returned.”

The candles glimmered in the gloom. Andraste stood in her perpetual ambiguous silence. She could think of nothing more to say to her. As for the remainder of the room…“Mr. Trevelyan, I must–”

At the very same moment he seemed to inhale a burden. “I should go,” he said. “Good night and Maker’s blessing, Miss Cousland.”

And before she could say goodnight, he was gone.

***

The memory of Miss Cousland’s hands during their Orlesian dance tormented Turin to a degree he had never imagined possible. Tucked into the curve of his arm, light feet shadowing his every move – what he had dared at Halamshiral was closer and more exciting than he had ever known before. That, and the more recent memory of closeness in the tight circle of a scandal in the making…ah, but that had come to nothing, a fact for which he was alternately grateful and frustrated.

But, crucially, Miss Cousland was not angry with him at the end. He was sure of it. But how to follow up on this? He danced with her at the next soiree, but the restrained style there only left him wanting more. It would be the scandal of the month if he drew her body close to his again. He could never risk it. He could only dance at a distance and make excruciating small talk.

“Wait,” he said, as she turned to follow his other advisors out of the war room.

“Yes?” she said quickly. She turned toward him but kept backing toward the door.

“I just – thank you for your support in dealing with Mr. Arainai. I think he would have been much less cooperative without you.”

“Of course. I do my best. And he was a good friend. – oh! There’s one more thing, Mr. Trevelyan.”

His nerves drew up to sharp attention. Yes?”

She was blushing. “Nothing important. I just – there hasn’t been time.”

“Time for what?” He walked around the desk, too curious now to maintain the distance that perhaps he should have. “I entreat you, Miss Cousland, do not make my presence such a cause for distress.”

“No! No, of course not. I only wanted to return something.” She looked down at her hand as she retrieved a small red-edged handkerchief from her bodice. She held it out well away from herself. “I took this from you when my hand was hurt.” 

“Ah.” It was warm to the touch. How long had she carried it thus? Was there a reason it was by her heart rather than in her pocket? Should he have tried to touch her hand during the exchange? Was he reading too much into this? 

“Thank you,” he said softly, afraid to scare her away with too loud a word.

“Of course,” she said, equally softly. “Well. That was all.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Good day, Mr. Trevelyan.”

“Good day, Miss Cousland.”

And with that, the encounter was over. It took its place in his dreams alongside the dance and the attic trap, for all the directions it could have gone.

***

“Miss Sera.”

Miss Sera did not look guilty, as Miss Sera never looked guilty, even though in Turin’s estimation she usually ought to. “Inky. What brings you up to the hidiest hidey-hole in the castle?”

“I was looking for Cole, actually. But now I’m curious why you’re here.”

Miss Sera smiled, a sight Turin found more than a little frightening. Then she raised what was in her hands: a steel bonnet adorned with the Seekers’ crest on both sides. One hand also clasped what looked like a chunk of honeycomb.

“Bees,” she explained. “Going to put some bees in Cassie’s bonnet. Get it? Bees in her bonnet?”

Whether he got it was beside the point. “Miss Sera, are you actually even slightly afraid of physical punishment?”

“Nah, I run faster than her. Hey, want to come plant it and see when she goes to get it?”

Turin decided that his efforts to branch out into likeability had their limits, and this was one of them. Particularly since, while Miss Sera could outrun Lady Cassandra, Turin himself might not.

In the interest of good manners he went looking for Sera’s intended victim, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to warn her in time.

***

Fionne dropped her needlepoint in consternation at the sight in the doorway. “Lady Cassandra! Are you hurt?”

The left side of Cassandra’s face was sprinkled with angry red marks, small and round and overlapping in a tumble of colour. Cassandra herself had the aspect of a storm cloud.

“Miss Sera,” she said, “is being herself.”

“She requires a stern talking-to,” Fionne said, blushing from her own remembrance. “Have you seen a healer?”

“They are busy enough with the actual wounded of the Inquisition. This will remind me to be more careful when equipping my bonnets.”

“I can ask Mr. Trevelyan to have a word with her.”

“The higher an authority has a word with her, the more likely she is to repeat the behavior,” grumbled Lady Cassandra. “Maker knows I have too many titles to earn respect with her. If anything does.”

“Then perhaps I shall. Though she has little use for me.”

“No, you’re sober and responsible. A crime we share.” Lady Cassandra made a disgusted noise. “It is beyond comprehension how Mr. Trevelyan tolerates her presence here.”

“She has…interesting tactical suggestions,” Fionne said tactfully. “I think he values a perspective so far removed from those of the gentry.”

“Does he value behaviour so far removed as well?”

“You are accustomed to far better manners, I take it.”

“Both in my life as Miss Pentaghast and my subsequent training as Seeker,” Cassandra said darkly. “Surely as a teyrn’s daughter you were raised to the same standard.”

“Ferelden has its quirks,” said Fionne. “Honestly when I was sixteen I think I would have gotten along very well with Sera.”

“I have trouble believing that.”

“I do as well. Things were very different then.” Fionne smiled in spite of herself. “I was a tomboy. I crept in on my brother’s geography and fencing lessons. I went to the most ridiculous lengths to make suitors uncomfortable enough to leave.”

“Ah, a habit we have in common.”

“Cassandra! How unbecoming a lady!”

“I tried to make people who said that uncomfortable enough to leave as well.”

Fionne laughed. “We shall have to compare notes to see which lovers were hardier, Fereldan or Nevarran. But, first. From those bad old days I happen to know a poultice that may soothe bee stings. And it’s not a waste of resources so don’t start.”

Lady Cassandra leveled a very long look at her. “Very well,” she said at last. “The storerooms?”

“The kitchens. I don’t recommend you eat the result, though.”

***

Fionne wandered the battlements. The night was clear and cold, and only a cutting wind lay between her and the stars. She kept a hooded lantern in one hand but shuttered its light. It felt more distant that way.

And then, in the crook of an uneven corner, Cole was there.

“Hello,” said Fionne. She didn’t feel particularly surprised. For once she didn’t feel particularly tense. Cole was just part of the night, a part that could talk back.

“You’re not angry,” said Cole, in wondering tones. “You usually are.”

Only when he was around, she had to admit. “I’ve thought about what you said. I think, if you want to help, I’m a little bit ready. Just don’t make me forget.”

“Draw out the heartache, halving, healing. I can try.”

“Can I tell you about it?”

“Only if the words help you. Bitterness biting, deep and dark. Why are you a Grey Warden if you hate being one?”

“I can’t just stop,” said Fionne. “I was chosen for life. That’s the way it works. And I don’t hate it so much these days.”

“Protector. Duty never done, always demanding, but you’ve learned to love it. What about the other? Him.”

“He’s what I wanted to talk about. I’m finally ready.”

So she stood on the battlements and talked. Talked about Alistair, their meeting, their whirlwind love, the way he supported her through the transitions of a Warden, and the way he died. And Cole listened, and Fionne found she didn’t even mind him in her mind.

She talked until she had nothing more to say. Her heart unburdened felt strange. Light. Nothing like those bonds that had held her silence for all these years. Furthermore it didn’t feel like a betrayal anymore. It was instead the shifting of a load, one that she had learned how better to bear.

“Cole?” she said.

“Yes?”

“How do I thank you?”

“Everyone wants to thank. They don’t have to. I’m just here.”

“Do you want to stay here?”

“Yes. I’m…learning.”

“I’m glad.” The surprising thing was, she meant it.

***

Spring was already hurrying toward summer, and after a long mutual absence Turin finally found himself in a room with Miss Cousland. He gathered his nerve and asked her to dance. She had never refused him. She did not now.

“How goes the evening?” he inquired. It was mindless and vapid, but it was the best he had.

“I’m quite well. How are you?”

“Dancing with a very respectable lady. I’ve had worse evenings.”

“I hope your latest expedition went well.”

“Perfectly successful.” Something tugged at him. “I didn’t do it alone. But we accomplished everything we set out to do.”

“Good.” For a moment he wasn’t sure whether she was paying attention. Her beautiful grey-blue eyes were abstracted, her manner stiff. And then of a sudden her focus was back on him, and he felt weak at the knees.

She slowed, missing his next turn, and stopped.

He stayed close because he could not bear to be otherwise. “Miss Cousland? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t...remember the rest of this,” she said. And, desperately, “Oh, we can’t start again now.”

How he had managed to distress her he didn’t know, but he bitterly regretted it. “If I have offended you...”

“No. No. Pardon me. I need a refreshment.”

“Sit, and I shall bring you one.”

“I am not so much an invalid as that,” she said miserably. “Oh, I wasn’t ready for this. Thank you for your time, Mr. Trevelyan.”

“Miss Cousland. Thank you for your charm. I...hope you feel better soon.”

“Mr. Trevelyan, you are too kind to me.”

“I should hope so.” He faltered. “I have to learn somehow.”

He walked a few steps and stopped, lost in confusion. He was still close enough to hear her speak as she approached Lord Pavus, who until moments ago had been leading the Iron Bull. Lord Pavus separated himself and bowed in Miss Cousland’s direction. “Has that lout been bothering you, Miss Cousland?”

“Not in the slightest,” she cried. “Oh, were it not for the very public nature of dancing I would not have such humiliating conversations. No. Mr. Trevelyan and I remain on good terms, and intend to go on doing so.”

“Marvelous! Then may I request a dance? My good friend Iron Bull here insists on treading on my toes.”

“Only when you’re getting saucy,” maintained the Iron Bull, with an earthquake of a smile.

“Oh, my,” Fionne said weakly. “I fear – I fear I must leave early tonight.” And she fled before Turin or anyone could offer to walk her to her quarters.


	33. Discretion in Sensitive Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady Cassandra is subject to flirting (What? With whom? Is this one of Master Tethras’ schemes?) and problems arise with Warden Blackwall. (He has been solidly reliable so far…)

Captain Rutherford came upon the Lady Cassandra seated on a stump by the musketry range.

BOOM. The report of a trainee’s musket echoed around the stone-walled courtyard. Cassandra was leaning over something, clearly deep in thought. Captain Rutherford thought it only fair to walk well around her and approach from the front. But as he did so he saw that she was reading.

BOOM.

Lady Cassandra looked up. At once her expression bloomed into horror. She leaped up from her stump and almost tripped over it backing up, all while trying to hide the book behind her slender back.

“Lady Cassandra,” he said, essaying a smile.

“Captain Rutherford,” she said. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

“That you’re reading?”

“Yes. No! It’s not that.” 

BOOM.

Cassandra twisted her arms behind her back. “It’s of no use to you, I’m certain.”

“On the contrary,” said Captain Rutherford, “if it’s of interest to you it must be valuable.”

“Valuable!” Cassandra slowly brought the book back around. “It’s…one of Master Tethras’s tales. ‘Swords and Shields.’ The latest chapter.”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible.”

BOOM.

“There must be a better place to talk than this,” cried Cassandra.

“We can repair to my office,” said Captain Rutherford. “It’s a little removed from all this.”

So, in pregnant silence, they walked up the long stairway to the ramparts and thence to Captain Rutherford’s tower. It was a small room but a comfortable one, possessed of a narrow cot and a number of bookshelves along with one large desk. Captain Rutherford wondered, too late, whether this might be considered improper; but though the room was possessed of a narrow bed it wasn’t much of a bedroom, serving more as an office. Captain Rutherford allowed Cassandra the one seat.

“Before you start,” said Cassandra, “It’s frivolous. I know” Her face twisted in distress. “It’s literature. Smutty…literature.” Some new thought seemed to bedevil her. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Master Tethras!”

“Knowing your strained relations, how could I?” said Captain Rutherford, fighting a smile and not doing a very good job of it. “But you enjoy them. The Inquisition has discussed plenty of them at salons, I’m sure there’s no shame in participating.”

“No one must ever know. They’re terrible.” She sighed. “And magnificent. And – this one ends in a cliffhanger. I know Master Tethras is working on the next, he must be!”

“If you put in a word with the Inquisitor he could probably speed that up.”

“Mr. Trevelyan can’t know either!” Cassandra’s eyes were big enough to take him in whole. “Oh, it’s only a waste of time!”

Captain Rutherford seemed to think about that for a moment before coming out with a smile. “I’ve been told, repeatedly, that I could use a waste of time. Come, how does it start?”

“Oh, this is only the latest chapter in a long series. You must really read the others to begin with.”

“And where might I find a copy?”

Cassandra blushed. “I can loan you mine. It’s a little worn out in places.”

That smile took on something of a grin’s nature. “Then I shall have to read those places extra carefully.”

“Oh, do not think the less of me!”

“My lady, it would take a far greater infraction than this for me to think less of you.”

“You are,” she said, fiery-cheeked, “very kind.”

“You know,” said Captain Rutherford, “this is the longest in our entire association we’ve gone without talking of either lyrium or the Inquisition?”

“I would be the first to go back to duty, but the Inquisition can probably take care of itself for an hour here and there. At least I tell myself that.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Captain...”

“Yes?”

Cassandra’s brow worked together and smooth and together again. “Never mind.”

***

“Yes,” said Fionne, “he was flirting with you.”

“How can he! Why would he? What must I do? I...”

“Do you wish to encourage him?”

“I could not be so forward!” Lady Cassandra’s distress would be amusing were it not so heartfelt. “At least in battle I know my place relative to him. Here, nothing is clear!”

“Except his interest, and your corresponding interest.”

“Miss Cousland. What would you do, if you were in my place?”

Everything went blank for a second.

“Well,” said Fionne, “of course, I would not stand on ceremony so much as to make him feel unwanted. I must of course laugh at his jokes, take his suggested walks and dances. I would...no.” She thought of breathtaking grey eyes. She thought of things she shouldn’t think of. “If I truly felt something I would tell him, clearly and without apology, that his attentions are welcome and his happiness my aim, no matter the confusions of the past. Anything less would be a waste of our time.”

Cassandra, out of natural grace or accident, did not challenge Fionne’s confusion. “If he were to court me – I mean, true courtship, not what conversation can be fit in between discussions of strategy! – if he were, it would be but a continuation of what we decided long ago is impossible.”

“And on whose authority is it so impossible?”

Cassandra made a distressed sound, and left.

***

Miss Sera burst into the war room by kicking the door in. “Hey. Muck-a-mucks. Don’t care about your strategy, Warden Blackwall’s gone missing.”

“What do you mean, gone missing?” said Miss Cousland, looking up from the war table along with Turin and the rest of the advisors. “Has he sought a field assignment?”

“Not from me,” said Captain Rutherford.

“Have a look.” Miss Sera tossed a crumpled note on the table with no mind for the pieces painstakingly arranged there.

Lady Josephine snatched the note and smoothed it against her writing board. Reading distinctly in her cultured voice, she said “Inquisitor. You’ve been an inspiration. You’ve shown me the wisdom to know right from wrong and, more importantly, the courage to uphold the former. It’s been my honour to serve you.”

“But what does it mean?” said Sister Leliana. “Where is he going?”

Miss Sera giggled. “Saved the best for last. One more piss of an explanation.”

Sister Leliana took this one when Miss Sera tossed it. “Lieutenant Cyril Mornay, one of the soldiers responsible for the Callier massacre of 9:37, was captured in Lydes. Like the others who were arrested for their involvement, Mornay insists that he did not know who he was assassinating, and that he was just following the orders of his captain. That captain, Thom Rainier, is still at large. Mornay is to be executed within the week in Val Royeaux.”

“Cyril Mornay,” mused Miss Cousland. “A friend of Blackwall’s?”

“I never heard his name before this,” said Leliana. “Though I had heard of the crime. That worries me.”

“We must go to Val Royeaux,” said Miss Cousland. “If a Warden is needed he need not stand alone.”

“He clearly did not desire your company,” said Turin. “To write to me and not you…it’s an open slight.”

“And one I shall not believe. Warden Blackwall has earned support, even if he doesn’t believe he needs it. I shall make preparations.”

“Miss Cousland!”

She jutted her chin out defiantly. “Yes?”

“I’m going with you.”

There was little talk on the road, even in the snug carriage that carried Turin, Miss Cousland, Mr. Solas, and Master Tethras. Apart from baseless speculation on what interest Blackwall might have in Orlesian criminal history, it seemed they had nothing useful to talk about. Either that or the tension of the main question simply squeezed all other matters out of the way.

The direction of the crowds in Val Royeaux told a dismounted Turin where to lead his little band. A scaffold and gallows were set up to one side of a flower-strewn city square. A shave-headed old man knelt, head bowed, hands bound behind him, waiting for the grim scene to start. Behind him stood a guard in the mask of Orlais’s judiciary. Its countenance was like nothing kind or gentle.

“Our Mornay?” murmured Solas, staring at the bound man.

“But I don’t see our Blackwall,” said Miss Cousland.

Turin thought nothing of shouldering forward to gain his party a better view. He thought briefly that he might use his status to force front-row standing, but discarded the thought as quickly. The Inquisition should not play his hand before he even knew what game Blackwall was playing.

Finally the masked bailiff raised his parchment high. The recitation of crimes was daunting: crimes against the empire of Orlais, the murder of a general, his retinue, and his very family, including four children. For this, the sentence: death by hanging.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

The kneeling man looked around with dead eyes, then looked down again.

“Very well,” spoke justice. “Proceed.”

“Stop!”

There he was, bluff in his quilted armour, haggard of mien and tense of bearing, but Blackwall blustered onto the scaffold easily enough. “This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him,” he shouted. “Orders were given, and he followed them like any good soldier. He does not deserve to die for that mistake.”

The masked bailiff crossed his arms. “Then find me the man who gave the order,” he cried, with some asperity.

There was a silence while Blackwall looked out over the throng. “Oh, shit,” whispered Master Tethras, and no one thought to silence him.

“Blackwall!” cried Miss Cousland.

And he faced her. “I am not Blackwall. I was never Blackwall. Warden Blackwall is dead, and has been for years. I assumed his name to hide, like a coward, from who I really am.”

Miss Cousland took out a kerchief and started to dab at her temples. She was looking wan. Meanwhile the kneeling man said something quiet and wondering. Blackwall – whoever this was – said a few solemn words in return. Then he raised his voice again: “I gave the order. The crime is mine. I am Thom Rainier.”

The crowd grew tenser with every revelation. Now they were bubbling with excitement. Two guardsmen and a skull-faced executioner took Rainier in custody while the bailiff cut beaten-looking Mornay free.

Mr. Trevelyan forbore to say anything more in public. Instead he pursued the knot of guards across the square and down a side street to the city prison. His hand sparked painfully, once and then again. Fionne, now looking deathly pale, stormed onwards.

“Miss Cousland,” said Turin. “Wait.”

“They can’t kill him until we have answers,” she said tightly. She wobbled on her feet, her skirts whispering in their own private agitation.

He stepped toward her, ready to take her elbow. “Are you well?”

“Should I be?” she said bluntly. “I must have answers.”

“And so must I,” said Turin, “but we must think first.”

“All this time you were satisfied that he was a Grey Warden?” said Mr. Solas.

She started to flush. “I didn’t press him on it! The few times we spoke, I talked, he listened. When he did speak it was with such pride of his vocation. The finer details of Wardenhood are no topic for polite conversation; I assumed his delicacy was equal to mine. And he certainly dealt with darkspawn as though he’d seen them before. Why then would I question his name or his honour?”

“Someone should have,” Turin said darkly. The implications of an impostor so high in his estimation were unpleasant indeed.

“It just goes to show that in times like these not every ally can be scrutinized as closely as we might like,” said Mr. Solas. “Here I believe we have an opportunity to take him to account – if indeed this is a battle we wish to pursue.”

The old gaol was party to Val Royeaux’s aesthetic reverie. It was a low cream-coloured building studded with slender towers decked with ribbons or flags. A high blue door indicated the entryway, while smaller barred windows were almost hidden by climbing vines.

Inside it transformed into a dark stone prison. Turin followed the gaoler down the hallway, acutely aware as he went of the cold draught, the dripping water in corners unseen. He looked back to make sure his companions were still there. And then, at the end of the hall, behind heavy black bars, stood Thom Rainier, once Blackwall.

Turin’s rising anger did not permit much of speech. “Explain,” he said sharply.

And, doggedly, while staring Turin in the eye, Rainier did. The career as an Orlesian soldier. The ordered assassination gone wrong, the family – man and wife and children – killed. Going on the run as a drifter. Recruited by a Grey Warden named Blackwall. When Blackwall died facing darkspawn, Rainier stole his name and reputation and went out as a recruiter himself. It was a better life, he said. Something where he could do some good.

“My lord,” he finished. “I didn’t want you to see this.”

“I didn’t want to see it,” Turin said thickly. “Yet here we are. You lied to us, Rainier or whoever you are? All this time? You lied to Miss Cousland, who never did you wrong?”

“Miss Cousland was an inspiration,” Rainier said levelly. “And a danger. I would have hurried past on the day I met her, but she wouldn’t let me. She really thought I could do more good with the Inquisition.”

“I was wrong,” Miss Cousland said icily. “I see that now. As do we all.”

“I didn’t know what to say to you when I left,” said Rainier. “Which is why the only note was for the Lord Inquisitor.”

Turin bit back a harsh reply. “What wouldn’t I give to judge you at Skyhold.”

“We still can,” said Miss Cousland. “Here. Gaoler.” The man so named drew near, his keys jingling in his hand. “As a Grey Warden I claim the right of conscription. Thom Rainier’s life is mine.”

The gaoler made a show of thinking that through. “The right of conscription only applies during a Blight.”

“And an archdemon scours the skies for Corypheus,” Miss Cousland said coldly. “Doesn’t it.”

The gaoler scowled. “As you say.”

Turin drew her aside at once. “You told me it was just a dragon,” he muttered.

“And it is,” she said. “Never let a truth get in the way of an advantageous lie, isn’t that what we’re learning today?”

“You didn’t have to do that. And I think rather the less of you for doing so.”

“That’s a price I must pay. It spared the Inquisition spending more of its goodwill on extraditing a criminal.” Her eyes blazed in the flickering torchlight. “Grant me leave to judge him at Skyhold.”

“I cannot but grant your request, you know that.”

“Good. Then I believe we may leave.”

“One thing, Miss Cousland.” It ran behind and below the fury of her feeling. It ran through the knowledge that, in the end, Thom Rainier had come back and confessed all to protect his man. “I know you are angry and I don’t blame you for it. But please, I beseech you, spare his life. Let a man earn your forgiveness, if not your favour.”

The anger on those proud features slipped a little, revealing something like sorrow. “For your sake, Mr. Trevelyan, I’ll think about it.” She moved on.


	34. Sitting in Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland passes judgment, an Arcanist shows her face, Mr. Trevelyan discusses a novel with Master Tethras and is not pleased with the likeness (would anyone be?), and Sister Leliana encourages Mr. Trevelyan to a certain course of action. (Ah, she couldn’t stay ignorant for long!)

Thom Rainier’s crimes were read aloud for the full benefit of the populace of Skyhold. He stood in chains, his head down, waiting in perfect patience for the end.

Mr. Trevelyan sat in the throne of the Inquisition, the high carved ivory piece whose only concession to comfort was a square red cushion. Mr. Trevelyan sat up straight and spoke, his voice pitched to carry to the far corners of the room. “Captain Rainier. Your crime was not against me. It was against the Calliers, and your men, and, in the end, the Grey Wardens. Two of these are beyond help. I leave your fate to the third. I hereby remand you to the custody of Miss Fionne Cousland, who stands for the Wardens in this affair.”

Fionne moved from Lady Josephine’s side to approach the throne. She turned and swept the crowd with her eyes. They were curious now, wondering, as well they might be. Fionne raised her voice. “A Grey Warden died in your company, and you stole his name, his possessions, and his life. Every action you took from that day was an insult to Grey Wardens who were better men than you. But Wardens believe in lives of service and deaths of meaning. You will have the opportunity for both. I claim you for a true Grey Warden, and a Grey Warden you will be until your death.”

The hall was abuzz with voices, some raised near anger, many others hushed and hurrying. Fionne took custody of one of Captain Rainier’s arms and let the Inquisition guard take the other. Together they made the long walk down the hall to the dank staircase that led to the Inquisition’s dungeons.

Warden Blackwall – no, Captain Rainier – walked slowly into the jail cell and turned around. His dignity seemed not so much quiet as hopeless, but his gaze never wavered. “I really thought you would chop my head off there in front of everyone. Would not that satisfy your sense of justice?”

Fionne pushed the cell closed and locked it herself. “You know nothing about my sense of justice, Captain Rainier. You killed children.”

“I didn’t know they would be there.”

“For coin.”

“I was told it was for the good of Orlais.”

“I care less than nothing for your excuses.” If he meant to justify his life…well, he could stop the effort. That was all there was to it. As for her mercy, for explanation she could offer only a story she had never told in full to anyone. “Let me tell you about a man named Duncan. He was a Grey Warden, one of their leaders in Ferelden. He was a guest in my home when my father’s ally betrayed us and sent men to murder my family. And me.”

Rainier eyed her curiously. “You survived.”

“I survived. Duncan brought me to my dying parents there in our house. He forced them to promise me to the Wardens in exchange for my life. If they agreed, he would see me out safe and I would be a Warden. If they refused, he would leave me alone to die with them.”

Rainier fairly smouldered. “That doesn’t sound like any Grey Warden I’ve heard of.”

“And he was a hero to many. The Blight drove him, true, but it drove him to such things. Later he brought me to the Joining, with an idealistic knight and a common thief from Denerim – the latter one of the bravest men I’ve known, even with the death sentence he’d come from and the death sentence he was going to. Duncan brought us together because he believed anyone could be the difference between life and death. Between Blight and hope. He would recruit anyone, no matter how vile, because his cause demanded it. And he was a hero to many.”

Fionne caught her breath and licked her lips, struggling for composure even now these many years gone. “I hated him. With a passion. For the bargain he drove, for the life he condemned me to. But he was a great Grey Warden. And if a man like him can be a hero, who am I to say you couldn’t be?”

“I have to believe Grey Wardens are better than that,” said Rainier. “And I’ll prove it to you.”

Fionne blinked away a mote of dust and nodded an admission that he might be right. “Nothing would please me more.”

***

“Inquisitor? My lord?”

The voice was small, and so was the woman speaking it. The dwarf twisted her fingers around one another and hung by the doorframe.

“Come in. Miss…?”

“Arcanist. Dagna, my lord. The arcane researcher? Might have blown up the Undercroft once or twice?”

“I wondered who did that. Didn’t I have you kicked out?”

“…nnnnot, that I noticed, my lord?” She blinked enormous eyes.

“All right,” said Turin, finally setting aside his pen. “What do you want now?”

What ensued was a rapid recitation of terms that Turin slowly became certain had been invented by the young woman on the spot for the purpose of obfuscating her true goal, which seemed to be…to be…

“You want Captain Rutherford’s men to resume gathering a substance proven to be so unstable it is suitable for nothing but an explosive firestarter?”

“Yes, Inquisitor! I think I’m really on to something!”

It was outside his experience entirely, to hear pleas from a young woman on the topic of cultivating dangerous substances. “Something explosive?”

“Something genius! Have you ever seen my armour linings? Gives you that extra edge in combat. I’ve had Miss Sera testing them. Once I perfect these pyrophite lacings it’s going to be – your weapon!”

“What?”

“Your musket! The things I could do–! Uh, with your permission, of course.”

“My weapon is perfectly adequate,” said Turin. 

“The Chargers have been doing really great with some of my modifications,” Arcanist Dagna said brightly.

“They…allow this?”

“A little enchantment never hurt anybody! Except everyone that’s gotten shot or stabbed or staved after, I guess. But they’re all not on our side!” Arcanist Dagna bounced up on her toes. “So…what were we talking about?”

“You were requesting pyrophite. To improve the Chargers, I take it.”

“And any member of the Inquisition who wants that extra edge! Or extra bullet. You know, depending. So, how about it?”

Turin rubbed his temples. “You have been working in Skyhold since we came here?”

“I think I was a month or two late. Great place, the Undercroft is the best workshop–”

“Uninhabitable by anyone but you.”

“And Harritt, but who’s counting?” she said. “Great place. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you there.”

“Then I had better visit.” It was, he reflected, part of the slow acquaintance he was finally renewing with Skyhold. Even the unfinished parts. “Until then, I shall instruct Captain Rutherford to resume providing pyrophite.” Turin considered the young woman before him and recalled, dimly, the last time the castle had shaken from its foundations. “I think.”

***

Turin was not above reading Master Tethras’s adventure novels. He had started with a sample Master Tethras gave him after Wicked Grace and had raced through several more in the course of weeks. He found that Madame Vivienne had simply intolerable ideas of who should win, but Lady Josephine showed a more tender sensibility. Not exactly the stuff of saving the world, but it was a nearly addictive diversion.

“I finished Heaven’s Shield,” said Turin, riding alongside Master Tethras. “I must say, your romantic lead was…unusual.”

“Oh?” said the author. “How so?”

“He just bumbled a great deal more than I expected. He was arrogant, judgmental, selfish – hardly a catch for anyone. I wanted him to succeed, but he wouldn’t just listen to anyone long enough to, not until the very end.”

Master Tethras chuckled.

Turin frowned, suspicious. “What amuses you so, pray tell?”

“He was based on you.”

Turin started. “I beg your pardon?”

“A novelist employs close powers of observation. Besides which, you practically wrote yourself.”

Mad visions of duels tumbled through Turin’s mind. “Have you told other people this?”

“Nah. Nobody wants to see the sausage making, you know? I thought I’d keep this one quiet.”

“Do you really suggest I would sabotage myself so completely without realizing it?”

“I think you already have. It may not be too late, though. There was a happy ending for our plucky hero once he got his head out of his proverbial cramped dark location. Think about it.” And with that the villain rode on.

Cramped, dark locations. It would have been thoroughly ungentlemanly to say that a dwarf should know.

Much later that painful evening Turin suddenly felt, with an indignation so intense it made him shiver, that if the protagonist was meant to be Miss Cousland Master Tethras hadn’t done her justice by half.

***

Sister Leliana stood framed with her face to the window, a raven on her outstretched arm. Nevertheless she seemed to notice when Turin came upstairs into her little sanctuary – and information clearinghouse.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” she said lightly. It was always dangerous when she said things lightly. “What can I do for you?”

“Sister Leliana, I was hoping you could tell me. Those little misspellings in my last few reports, they were intentional.”

“Ah, yes. I wanted a meeting and thought it might be fun to make you work for it.” The raven flapped off. Leliana turned around. “I have to ask you a question.”

“I thought you already knew everything?” He tried to make it droll, not accusing.

“What’s hidden in the hearts of men may come to light only indirectly. Which brings me to my question. What are your intentions regarding Miss Cousland?”

A most ungentlemanly quantity of bile surged up Turin’s throat. “I– have none,” he said. “That is the only answer I can give, and I beg you to accept it.”

“I cannot. For a long time now you’ve made no definite move. Miss Cousland has come a long way in these past months. She is happy here, a fact that you may not find remarkable but that I see as the quickening of a seed that had lain buried and dormant for years of her retreat at Amaranth.”

“If I can contribute to that happiness, I shall. And...if I cannot, Sister, no amount of questioning will benefit her or make me feel lower than I already am in her estimation.”

“Mr. Trevelyan, I have known Miss Cousland since she was a girl, barely more than your age now. I know just how much she deserves, and how inadequate the world has been in response. These past months, she has been happy. I don’t know how or why. But whatever you are doing, you must keep doing it.”

And maintain this torment? “I am holding my silence, no more and no less.”

“So. Keep doing it.” Leliana smiled. “Simple.”

“Is that all? Will you speak for or against me? If I am to change in her opinion I at least want to know which way.”

“I shall interfere no further,” Leliana said sweetly. “I’m glad we had this talk, Mr. Trevelyan.”

“Sister Leliana! I...” his nerve forsook him. He already knew what was necessary, even if his heart sank to know it. “I shall stay away, if that is what she wants.”

“And she will thrive. I hope this is some solace to you.”

It was, but not as much as might be desired. Still there were things to be desired.


	35. A Place for All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland cannot account for Mr. Trevelyan’s coldness, Mr. Trevelyan discusses his impressions of women with Captain Rutherford, Lady Josephine receives Mr. Hawke’s confession, the ladies comment upon Miss Cousland and Mr. Trevelyan, and Warden Blackwall takes the Joining.

Days after they began, Mr. Trevelyan’s rebuffs still felt startling. He had been both gentle and good-mannered since Fionne had rejected him, and seemed content to go on that way, until now. No more dances, no more compliments. No more, she reminded herself, than she deserved.

It was bad enough even without reminding herself that his silences were born of her having hurt him.

One change did remain constant, and that was the abrupt loss of his vanity. He praised others now instead of himself, and made time for people who could not be useful to him. He really seemed to enjoy the companionship of the others of the Inquisition, even the ones Fionne had trouble keeping patience with.

He was so much changed, and only at the cost of his attentions to her.

She kept on drilling with soldiers in the yard. She attended salons every evening she could and was of course available to dance at the week’s end. Mr. Solas sometimes took pity on her there, partaking of something like a fatherly air as he squired her about the room. It wasn’t unpleasant. Single men her age stayed well away, a fact that left her wondering whether she had been marked when she wasn’t looking. But no. The marked one was elsewhere – even when in the same room she seemed invisible to him, and the horrible part was that might be the right way for things to be.

***

There was a quiet moment in Captain Rutherford’s office, and Turin stretched and sighed. “Has it occurred to you,” he said, “that we’re surrounded by improbably accomplished women?”

“What, here? With the Seeker they call the Right Hand and the lay sister they call the Left, either one of which is certifiably twice as active as our actual Divine? Not to mention the surviving Hero of Ferelden and the Court Enchanter of Orlais – directly followed by the other Court Enchanter of Orlais – and a fully qualified diplomat with personal friendships in six countries? It is a rather daunting list, isn’t it?”

“I feel like I should have spent a few years improving my own personal qualifications.”

“Hm. You would’ve had to start in the cradle, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, you can talk. You’ve made something of yourself. Knight-Captain. Now the commander of the upstart Inquisitor’s armies. You could stand with any of them. I’m just here because I touched the wrong magical artifact.”

“I believe you’re here for a reason, and I don’t believe anyone else could have done better with the hand you were dealt. So to speak. Take that with whatever credence you may lend an old man.”

“Very well, I shall. Nevertheless. Sometimes I wonder that the ladies of this enterprise tolerate my company at all.”

“They like you. Well, as much as Madame Vivienne likes anything. Honestly I wouldn’t value our Inquisition as much as I do if they weren’t so rational and, yes, forgiving.” His attention seemed somewhere else for a moment. “If they weren’t so grounded, as well as superior. They could not be so great, were they not so good.”

Turin half smiled, having finally divined the captain’s thoughts. “You speak of someone in particular.”

Captain Rutherford started. “What! Me? No. Far from it. Now I should really get back to work – good day!”

And he turned to his desk as though Turin had disappeared. Too amused to argue, Turin did.

***

“Mr. Hawke,” said Lady Josephine. “What can I do for you?”

“Once those letters are off to Kirkwall? Very little. Except, perhaps, talk.” He hung in the doorway, not quite crossing the threshold of her office. “If you have a moment outside work.”

“Moments outside work must be taken, and firmly,” said Lady Josephine. “I never do so without good company.”

“Ah. Then I’ll just show myself out.”

Lady Josephine laughed, a pleasant tumbling sound. “Stay, Mr. Hawke, if you have a moment.”

“My time is almost up,” he said. “But I thought we could talk this afternoon.”

“Certainly. Is there a topic in particular? Or may I ask?”

“Ask me what?”

“Oh, something. Anything. You are a mysterious man, Mr. Hawke. Despite all our time together.”

“I don’t mean to be. I just don’t have as many pleasant things to say as a man talking to you ought to.”

“After all your travels. Must you hide here as well? I’d like to know. You have been a mystery since you vanished from Kirkwall.”

“Kirkwall.” He all but spat it. “Is it such a mystery? Lady Josephine, the last ten years have been no more to me than a catalog of misfortunes and losses. I lost Lothering. I lost my brother. I lost my sister. I lost my mother. I lost my country. And then, when it seemed that my life had been built anew around something good, I lost…someone dear to me. And with him, Kirkwall. My friends, my house, my adopted city. I’ve made a living as a mercenary ever since because there is nothing in this life to sustain me but for my own arm. It is a lonely existence. It is the cruelest irony that I should be named Champion of the city that took everything from me. What good is a champion who cannot even save himself?”

Lady Josephine put aside the pen that she had absentmindedly left in midair. “No one would argue that you have survived great hardship,” said Lady Josephine. “In all this, have you ever had time to mourn?”

“I did, when he was alive. Not since then. It was too important to keep moving.”

“You can rest here.” Lady Josephine reached out one hand without standing. 

Hawke hesitated. But then, he had already just disclosed the dark corners of his heart; he was past the point of modesty. He approached to take her hand. In the instant of warm live contact he felt his legs give way, and he fell in front of her, kneeling. “Oh, Lady Josephine…I should not speak more.”

“Speak as much as you need to.” She touched his hair with her free hand, smoothing it over his head. “Or not at all.”

Sighing, he leaned forward to rest his head in her lap. She kept stroking his shaggy black hair, gentle and patient, not demanding – and oh, how many people had demanded of the time he didn’t have and the heart he could no longer hold together. He grasped her skirts in his big coarse hands and let the tears flow.

Lady Josephine sat, and stroked his hair, and let him be.

***

That very evening Miss Sera showed up out of nowhere to help herself to Madame Vivienne’s chocolates. “See,” she said through a messy bite, “how Mr. Trevelyan was looking at Miss Cousland to-night? All puppy eyes.”

Vivienne tapped her fan. “Whatever are you talking about, dear?”

“Mr. Turin Trevelyan. Obviously. He’s gotten awfully nice to a certain person. Not sure why. They’ve been on the outs for weeks now. Probably something to do with his big ego. Either that or a fight over the right way to kill demons.”

“Miss Sera! I would not engage in such petty gossip. Although, at our last salon he did drop his handkerchief not once but twice where Miss Cousland would be forced to pick it up.” Vivienne fanned herself. “Regardless of my mastery of the elements, the lightning gathering there to strike is not something my powers could create.”

“Can’t hurry it along,” Sera said slyly. “Tried to. But I dare say we could wreck it.”

“Miss Sera. I for one am fascinated by Mr. Trevelyan’s experiments in unselfishness. I wouldn’t interrupt it for the world.”

***

Fionne met the wagon in the yard. After weeks of waiting and querying each incoming shipment it was a relief to get the right one. There was one package for her, wrapped securely in leather and cloth. She unwrapped it there in the open; it revealed a small jar with a cork stopper, nothing that looked special. She took it reverently in her hands, tucked a goblet and a second smaller jar into the crook of her arm, beckoned a guard to serve as supervisor, and went to find Blackwall.

The villain was in a side room of the stables, working on some child’s toy. How bitterly ironic, given the crime that had damned him. Nevertheless, she had what she needed to deal with him now. 

“Are you ready?” she said, gesturing the guard to watch from one corner.

He set aside his tools. “So soon? Isn’t there some sort of preparation?”

“Ordinarily you would go obtain a vial of darkspawn blood yourself. But I know you’ve already blooded yourself, so I took the liberty of having some sent.” She raised her package. “I had to send to Weisshaupt for this,” she said.

“What is it, exactly?”

“You’ll find out. Know this: you may not survive it. But drink it you will. Am I understood?”

“Perfectly, Warden Cousland.”

“Very well.” That habitual, unapologetic determination hadn’t wavered when his lies crumbled. Fionne could reluctantly admire that. She opened the jars and decanted their contents into the goblet, then cupped her hands around the goblet and recited the words that had defined her life. “Join us, brother. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you.”

He accepted the cup from her hands and drank deep – deeply enough that the cup was still tilted high over his lips when he started choking. Fionne stepped back to give him room. She knew how this went. She prayed it would turn out one way and not the other. Even a criminal was worth some hope, if he walked willingly into the Joining.

Rainier fell to his knees. The cup fell from his hands and clanged away. Fionne was tied up purely in the agonized jerks of Rainier’s breathing. She knew what he was seeing in these seconds, remembered well what physical sensation corresponded with the Blight’s horrific visions. Rainier gasped. He gagged. Fionne’s hopes began to fade. He fell facefirst on the floor, still jerking. Fionne felt a stinging in her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to blink it away.

Rainier went still.

Heart galloping now, Fionne turned him up and pressed her fingers to his neck. The pulse there was sluggish but strong. Fionne let a hard breath out and then set about rolling him to his back.

He saved her the trouble, coughing and curling up on his side. Breathing heavily, he pushed himself up to his knees, and then, brushing aside Fionne’s offer of assistance, his feet.

“Is that all?” he said, a little hoarsely. “Thought it would be harder.”

And that was all the concession to the visions of darkspawn that swarmed and overwhelmed recruits when they first made their connection to the Blight. His stoicism did him credit. “Being the man who takes that draught is the hard part,” she said. “The details you get to manage as you go along.”

He coughed again. “So what else do I need to know?”

“I shall teach you. Do what you’ve been doing. Only as an honest man. If you want to go back to Blackwall as a sort of title, I think you wouldn’t shame him now doing it.”

“Blackwall.” Rainier wiped his mouth, then nodded. “You think so?”

“You’ve earned it, if you want it.”

“Let’s see what the others have to say.”

“The others don’t get to judge Grey Wardens. We do that among ourselves.”

“Ah.” He inclined his head, almost smiling. “That’s so. I won’t waste your mercy, Warden Cousland.”

“If I thought you might, we would never have come this far.”

Blackwall sobered. “I believe you.”


	36. A Feminine Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Trevelyan faces an unexpected adversary, Miss Cousland asks about the future of the Inquisition’s main figures, and ladies choose dance partners.

Travel. Still there were rifts, though they were fewer and further flung now. Turin healed the land, one moment at a time. It led him to surprising places.

He was washing his face in a cold stream when he heard it. “Mr. Trevelyan!” Miss Cousland’s voice, ordinarily so flat, so reserved, burst into surprise. He looked up and saw, silhouetted against the sunny glade, Miss Cousland - in what seemed to be only a thin white gown, so thin in fact as to practically invite questionable thoughts.

A smile played first at one side then the other of her mouth. The movement was perversely mesmerizing. There was something queer about it, perhaps, very queer – but not enough to reduce the welcome joy of her presence.

“Mr. Trevelyan, I wanted to talk to you.” She stepped down off the root she had stood on and started floating towards him. He found himself unable to move, and would not have wanted to even if he could. “Turin,” she said, her voice lending the word warmth and meaning it had never held before. “I wanted to talk to you.”

He cleared his throat. Her dress really did cling rather a lot. “I am at your service, Miss Cousland.”

She stopped at arm’s length, or perhaps a little less. “Have you ever thought about calling me Fionne?”

Something rose in the back of his mind. This was too strange. Too strange. But if it wasn’t real, if this was someone else’s game, so what? He could play along for a little while. She was so beautiful. He could stop her later, after she had played out whatever scene she had in mind.

He would have taken any scene she had in mind.

“We must observe the proprieties, M-Miss Cousland,” he said.

“I understand.” She nodded. Her eyes were blue in the sunlight, dazzlingly so. “Maybe we won’t always have to be so proper.”

“I would never ask anything else of you.”

Her lips curved. “Do,” she said, leaning in. “Ask. Something improper.”

Yes, yes, yes, he inwardly sang, and it took all his will to keep playing his part. Would it do any harm to unburden himself to this image? He could stop after. “It’s no use. I have tried to stay away, as you clearly desired.”

“Don’t.”

She reached out with one slender hand. She touched his chest. She was warm like nights at home with a good fire and good company. She followed with her other hand. In spite of himself he clasped both her hands against him. “Miss Cousland,” he tried to say, and it came out in a whisper. “Tell me not to stop.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Oh, Fionne.” He wanted three more words. He was dying for them. But when he tried to ask he found himself frozen, powerless to speak, suspended between resolution and action. And into that stillness she turned up her face and then he leaned down and kissed her. Her lips were petal-soft, her skin very faintly scented with something that made him dizzy. He reached up to touch her jaw, her cheek, her throat, brushing lightly with the backs of his fingers as though afraid to disturb this with something too direct. She leaned into him and kissed him as if he had never been kissed before.

He hadn’t.

Silently, wonderingly, he molded his lips to hers and touched her hair, her hands, and, while she sighed toward him, her hips, so very close now. If he kept going his heart would burst. If he stopped his world must surely end.

Three things happened almost at once. First, Miss Cousland’s warm body came to rest against his in shocking contact that sent thrills to his every extremity. Secondly, a shot rang loud enough to destroy what few shreds of thought he had left. And thirdly, a bullet ripped through Miss Cousland’s torso.

She gasped and sagged away from him. “No!” he cried. Even as he caught her in his arms she was changing, her hair twisting into violet horns, her clothes melting, her skin taking on a greyish violet tinge, her eyes...her eyes were nothing human. But an instant ago it had been Fionne Cousland and now she was dying, and there was nothing he could do.

He let her slip down and then turned away, covering his mouth. The moment’s complete conviction that Miss Cousland had been killed...he suppressed the nausea but could not stop the tortured galloping of his heart.

The demon began to fade and dissolve. In its place, Miss Cousland strode up, her musket firmly in hand.

“Are you all right?” she said.

He shook his head.

She looked over him, that brittle-ice appraisal that meant she was judging the situation and was ready to take control of it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “They get inside your head. It’s what they’re made to do.”

“Did you see what she– it– was?”

“No. It doesn’t work that way.”

“I’m s-sorry.” He stopped, cursing himself. She must feel his guilt. It must be written all over him, not just in the state of his clothes. “I should have stopped it.”

“Now you know,” she said, and for once her flat neutrality seemed kind. “All it showed you were lies. Don’t hold yourself responsible for the ones it picked.”

But he was. He was.

***

Fionne walked back in a storm of feelings she had no choice but to hide. Unless Mr. Trevelyan was much more changeable than she thought – and she somewhat hoped he was – then the desire demon had shown him her. Fionne Cousland. 

And what a scene she had walked in on. That long unbroken kiss that had stopped her in a flurry of confusion. The strange thing was, it wasn’t lust, what she saw. It was tenderness. She found herself wondering what it would be like to be the recipient of such reverent caresses, such gentle kisses, to have her fingers in that black hair, her arms over those strong shoulders. And determinedly she stopped. She had ended that without possibility of continuation. The unalloyed joy in his face must be forgotten; it was the product of a demonic dream, no true connexion.

Fionne wasn’t sure she could compare to a desire demon anyway. The thought fretted her far more than it should have as they returned in silence to camp.

***

Turin ran the calculations in his head over and over, mentally mapping the consequences of the Inquisition’s next moves. This process went easier with his advisors, but they had scattered and he still had a great deal to decide. As a gentleman of property he might have some fraction of this weight; as a gentleman of the Inquisition it was inescapable.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” said Miss Cousland from the doorway. “I thought I might find you here.”

Turin looked up from the war table and rubbed at his neck, grimacing. He probably looked a fright, not that Miss Cousland would ever be so rude as to say so. “Miss Cousland.” He had done his best to stay clear of her wherever polite, but he didn’t think he could avoid this. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Her brown hair was braided as usual, coiled today around her head in a sort of crown. A smile ghosted across her face and then gave way to something like worry. “I was just thinking.”

He straightened, now fixing his full attention on her. “Yes? About what?”

“,” she said. And, with more voice, “The Inquisition. Have you…thought about what happens when Corypheus is dead?”

“Yes. In some detail.” He was relieved to hear someone else mention it. There were so many crises now, it took a certain presence of mind to look beyond it. It was usually a lonely exercise.

“Really? I suppose…it’s very likely that we will scatter.”

“Yes. Many of our comrades have commitments elsewhere. It would make little sense to stay after the danger is past.” 

She nodded absently. “And you? Where will you go?”

“Well, I have a castle here.” He half smiled, in pride as well as levity. “There’s nothing for me back in the Free Marches. I may as well spend my days protecting this area.”

“I see.” She was picking at her skirt, seemingly oblivious to it. “I…personally…that is, I could rejoin the Wardens.”

It stung. It stung but it was true. “You could,” he said, a little too briskly. “You can only improve them.”

“Quite. Yes.”

“They need your expertise and guidance. And maybe Ferelden will return to its old strength.”

“Yes. And really, we would still have correspondence with Skyhold.”

“I should hope so.” Maker, what would he do without it? 

“I shall miss all of you.”

“And I–” He almost said it. He caught himself in time. “All of you.” 

“Yes,” she said faintly. “Our differences are not really so great. And our– friendships, I hope, will last.”

“I treasure the ones I have made,” said Mr. Trevelyan. “With all my heart.”

Did she take it as encouragement? Did he dare clarify? Could he tell her that everything, all of it, was for her? “I suppose we don’t have to worry about any of that yet,” she said.

“I look forward to this conflict being over,” he said weightily. The one between them, that was. The one outside…must end, too, yes. It had to. He had to work for that day, whatever the reckoning awaiting him at the end.

“So do I,” she said fervently. Was she, too, speaking of their difficulties? Or did that mean she hoped they would part ways sooner? “I–”

Just then Lord Pavus burst in. Another crisis called. Turin strode out with Miss Cousland at his side, and he felt that this was where he belonged, for as long as it might last.

***

“Here’s one we haven’t done,” called Sister Leliana. “Ladies’ choice.”

The reaction rippled brightly around the room, and sufficient heads were nodding to carry the motion. Sister Leliana, looking satisfied, began to prowl about the walls.

In a subtle if remarkably quick maneuver Lady Josephine was suddenly at Mr. Hawke’s side. He smiled the kind of smile that clearly demonstrated to everyone else in the room just what she saw in him, and took her hand. Sister Leliana was consulting with Lady Cassandra. Madame Vivienne was holding herself aloof, much as expected. Miss Sera was giving a lounging Charger the most terrifying looks. Mr. Trevelyan was looking, thank the Maker, anywhere but at Fionne. And Fionne herself, rather than wait on the whispers to match her up with a man whose remembered arms still pressed around her, hurried to Lord Pavus where he stood next to the Iron Bull. “Good sir,” she said, with an elaborate bow. “May I have this dance?”

“Dear lady, I thought I would be languishing on the sidelines indefinitely. Or at least until men got free will again.” Lord Pavus winked at her and led her onto the floor. “I fear I must warn you, my heart belongs to another.” He shot a furtive look Iron Bull’s way.

“It’s your hand I request, not your heart.”

“Ah, you sly thing. That is an offer I’ll refuse, but let’s not let that ruin the moment.”

To Fionne’s considerable surprise, Lady Cassandra glided onto the floor with Captain Rutherford on her arm. They were both blushing wildly and neither was looking at the other. Fionne felt an odd stab of jealousy for the freedom to be so open. Lady Josephine and Mr. Hawke were lost in one another’s eyes. Mr. Trevelyan was leaving with Warden Blackwall, who had started creeping back into these gatherings since his Joining. Fionne resolutely reminded herself that it didn’t matter who Mr. Trevelyan spoke to. That was his business, not hers. Anything but hers.

“You don’t need to look quite so thrilled by my company,” Lord Pavus said with a gentle smile.

“Oh! I apologize. Truly. How did you like the raspberry tarts with dinner?”

“I think if we had more raspberries in this dank mountain holdfast I might never eat anything else. Raspberry tarts are a complete food, right? Sugar, fruit, more sugar…?”

“I know plenty of people who would gladly test its adequacy for a complete diet.”

“Count myself among them. For one thing, I don’t have to worry so much about my girlish figure.”

“Lord Pavus, you cut a fine figure.”

His smile dazzled. “You’re only saying that because I do.”

She laughed, and the evening turned out to be more cheerful than predicted. Even without Mr. Trevelyan’s presence, there was genteel company enough for all. And even without his future, there was companionship to last.


	37. Questions of Exploration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady Cassandra asks Lord Pavus about love (that cannot end well), Mr. Hawke does Lady Josephine a favour, Lady Morrigan examines Mr. Trevelyan’s mark, and Miss Cousland tries to grow closer to the Inquisition. (By doing what?)

Lord Pavus bumped into Lady Cassandra in a corridor outside the war room. They both began profuse apologies.

“I say,” said Lord Pavus, “do you have a moment?”

“I might.” They had been cautiously cordial neighbours for a long time in the valley. That relationship had all but melted in the hectic heat of the Inquisition’s operations.

“You’ve seemed distracted in the field of late,” said Lord Pavus. “I wanted to ask whether there’s a problem I can set fire to to set it right.”

“That is…very kind, but not necessary.” Cassandra worried her lip with her teeth for just a few moments. “Have you ever – you must have, knowing the demands that the Imperium puts on its scions. Have you ever spent so much time rebuffing suitors’ advances that you’re not certain what to do when you desire those advances?”

“That would be an admirable summary of my last several…well, never mind. Yes, I’m very familiar with the sensation. I solve it by continuing to rebuff.”

“I cannot! He is too good a man to treat lightly.”

“Do you need me to put in a good word? I could invent some very good words.”

“Don’t! Oh, absolutely not. I must solve this myself. Though it’s entirely possible he has no interest, and I am deluding myself out of ego. Out of desperation for someone who has become important in more ways than one.”

“My dear Lady Cassandra, you are perfectly charming when you’re flustered.”

“You started this,” accused Cassandra. “I must ask you to say nothing. You and I both have a long history of rejecting anyone who might match us.”

“I reject people who might not match me, too,” said Lord Pavus.

“But just this once I must accept what is offered.” Cassandra tilted her head. “So might you, Lord Pavus.”

“The candidate is doing splendidly,” breezed Lord Pavus. “I shall remember, though. If you can swallow your pride long enough perhaps I can, too.”

***

The figure scaled the wall, which to Hawke was sufficient provocation. He grasped his sword and sprinted into Skyhold, making his expert way to the airy side room where Lady Josephine spent her days. It was close to the point of entry. And it was, he soon found, the intended destination of the intruder.

“Account for yourself,” he said, standing at guard. The woman smiled unpleasantly and lunged with a long dagger. Hawke, proficient in his chosen weapon, worked to subdue; and when he could not subdue, he removed.

Lady Josephine had emerged from her office and was watching avidly. “Mr. Hawke!” she said. “You are unhurt?”

“Yes,” he said. “And you?”

“Only startled,” said the lovely lady, laying a hand to her breast. “I’m sure it will pass.”

“But – an assassin? Only a fool would seek to strike at the Inquisitor from here. And yet…she seemed particularly focused on you. Who would ever want you dead?”

“I am a diplomat, Mr. Hawke.” She smiled, still looking faint. “Scarcely a day goes by when someone does not swear to assure my death for some perceived insult.”

“But know you not who? Or why here and why now?”

“Please, I must beg the utmost discretion before I go any further.”

“My lady, you have it.”

Lady Josephine ran her hands over her hair and made a palpable effort to bring herself under control. “My family, the Montilyets, had a falling-out with another noble family, the Du Paraquettes. An assassination contract was levied on the next Montilyet to attempt any stature in Orlais. This was a hundred years ago, Mr. Hawke, and it only activated now, with my efforts to reestablish trade.”

“But surely the grudge must have rested by now.”

She shrugged with the ways of the world. “A contract is a contract.”

“Can you speak with the Du Paraquettes? Urge them to reconsider this absurd arrangement?”

“Would that I could! They lost their patent of nobility years ago. Without that authority they cannot reverse any previous decision of their house.”

“I see. And might an enterprising fellow of charm and some modest influence be able to change their minds?”

“Were it merely a matter of influence I…ah. I do not mean to set your connexions’ value so low. But no. This can only be solved by a noble Du Paraquette.”

“And can you do that?”

“With a lawyer, a judge, and a magistrate to help.”

“Now you’re joking. Only your eyes usually sparkle when you joke. Is it indiscreet of me to notice? Or only to speak the observation?”

But she laid out the necessary actions in crisp order, and Hawke had to concede that she had the process neatly mapped out. Given that, he swore solemnly to obtain whatever was needed to restore her old rival and remove the contract against her life. She demurred in a most becoming way, but did not stop him.

*

“Lord Inquisitor!” 

Turin looked up from his desk. Mr. Hawke was standing there, awash in cheerful insolence as ever.

“Mr. Hawke?” Turin said pointedly.

“I just happened across the most fortuitous opportunity for the good people of the Inquisition, and I thought you might be happy to be the next man to know.”

“Is this one of Master Tethras’s schemes? They do tend to escalate in your presence.”

“Not at all. I am not at liberty to name the conspirators; I can say only that it will benefit a mutual friend.”

“And what mutual friends do you and I have, exactly?”

“For shame, Lord Inquisitor. I flatter myself that our advisors have reached some level of privilege with us both. But come now. I need to arrange certain favours that the Inquisition can bring about.”

“I am not here for your convenience, Hawke.”

“If I say it is for a lady?”

“I shall not bend the Inquisition’s resources for you to impress a woman.”

“Impress, no. Pluck from the clutches of adversity, surely?” Mr. Hawke reached out one large hand and considered his knuckles. “Besides, if you unbend the slightest bit to permit this little operation I won’t have to tell Miss Cousland that you–”

“That I what?” Turin cried, stung. Whatever accusation the blackguard meant to lay it could only further degrade Miss Cousland’s opinion of him, and her favour was too dear a currency to allow a villain like Mr. Hawke to waste it on lies. “Say it, if you have the courage.”

“Do I need to?” Mr. Hawke’s eyes were brown and bright with malice. “Give me my way for the cost of two casual favours and a modest bribe. In return Miss Cousland will hear nothing from me on the topic of your…designs.”

Designs! Could Hawke even understand the innocence of Turin’s renewed attachment, the forlorn but inviolable purity of their association? And yet matters between himself and Miss Cousland would be thrown into hopeless confusion if even a lying word came to the wrong ear at the wrong time.

“You will have your resources,” he gritted. “In return you will not so much as speak my name to Miss Cousland while you are peddling your rumours.”

“And so two very great ladies benefit, while two irredeemable rascals carry about their troublesome ways. Has a certain poetry to it, doesn’t it?”

Turin pinched his nose, pained. “I don’t read poetry,” he said. “Now go.”

Several minor social occasions took place in Orlais in the weeks following this particular arrangement. A Countess Dionne received news of her missing lover, a missing mage, just in time to herself offer sponsorship to the ranking (if yet common) du Paraquette. Judge Auld, an aspiring huntsman, received a formal invitation and escort on a hunt for a rare spider; when he returned he felt inspired to formally elevate the du Paraquettes to nobility. Finally, in a continuation of that wondrous transmutation of favour into favour, the Marquis Wiscotte found himself raised to the Council of Heralds, which in turn left him eager to ratify the papers that Judge Auld had drafted. And suddenly the Du Paraquettes were nobility. In their new graciousness they saw fit to remove the contract against the Montilyets. It was, in short, a satisfactory arrangement for all.

“We could have just burned the contract,” said Sister Leliana.

Hawke froze. “…Really?”

No one was certain who laughed first, but they all joined.

***

“Inquisitor.” Turin was on his way out of the kitchens with handfuls of fruit when Lady Morrigan appeared. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, my lady. What can I do for you?”

“You seem to delight in saying that. What would happen if I were to take you up on your offer?”

Turin paused, taken aback. “I don’t know. It would depend upon the request.”

“Ah.” Her yellow eyes danced. “I shall not test that matter very extensively now. I have had my chance to acclimate to the grounds and even study the library your Lord Pavus has collected. I wanted to ask you about your mark.”

“Oh. You may have the training to understand what I don’t. What do you want to know?”

“I should like to look at it.”

Turin awkwardly piled his spoils into the crook of his right arm and held out the green-marked hand. “Here it is.”

Lady Morrigan reached out and touched him with one cool hand, leading him to cast a quick glance around for witnesses. They were in a safely public space. “Fascinating,” she murmured. “This is utterly unlike the Fade magicks I was taught in my youth.”

“You were taught about direct manipulation of the Fade?”

“I was taught many things.” Her eyes gleamed. “My studies have taken me many strange places. To Ferelden, the Deep Roads, Orlais. And now here.”

“Could you remove this?”

“Remove it? ‘Tis bound into your lifeblood. I could no more remove it than remove your heart from your chest. ‘Tis a wonder to me that it responds to your conscious commands at all, so deeply is it rooted.”

“It’s of limited use when there aren’t Fade rifts to close.”

“It may be of tremendous use before the end. Then again, perhaps not. If our enemy never approaches the Fade in the flesh, we may never have anything to close.”

“I hope that is the case.”

“Yes. For all our sakes.”

It seemed impolite to just leave the conversation in such a dire state. “You could ask Mr. Solas more about the nature of it. He says it’s ancient elven magic. Whatever recognition he has, I don’t understand. I am not and never will be a scholar of the arcane.”

“Then ‘tis a good thing that you were provided one by your friend Gaspard?” Morrigan said silkily. “Tell me, if the day comes when the mark begins to spread again. Perhaps I shall be able to do something. Or perhaps I shall simply be able to strike in your place.”

“Forgive me if I hope that is not the outcome.”

“Of course. Your will to survive is one of the great assets of the Inquisition. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

***

Mr. Hawke appeared to be absorbed in repairing his boot. Fionne wasn’t sure whether to remind him that there were people who could do that for him these days.

“Mr. Hawke,” she said, “I wondered whether you might wish to spar in the practice yard with me. Sabre against sabre.”

Mr. Hawke’s dark eyes harboured deep suspicion. “My lady, if you desire a chance to harm me you could do so more directly.”

“I don’t. Believe me. You have done every kindness…every kindness.”

His frown only deepened. “Miss Cousland, I know what you refer to. I shall not apologize for an action I do not regret. But I sincerely pray that you find the world less unwelcome than you did that day.”

“Mr. Hawke, I was ungrateful. You did me a vast service and I repaid you with bitterness. I should apologize.”

“I profess that would be a novelty for me.”

“I returned your kindness with abuse. I apologize.”

“Accepted. – Do you still want to lay on with a sword?”

She could finally permit a smile. “If you wish.” 

***

For the second time in Turin’s experience of the weekly Wicked Grace game, the table fell silent.

He twisted around on the bench to see why. Miss Cousland stood there, weaponless, her aristocratic features set in something like determination. “Is there room for another?” she said, clear and steady.

Turin rushed to shove Lord Pavus further down the bench, drawing an outraged yelp. Never mind. Miss Cousland came to him, graceful and calm, and settled her skirts close around her legs. “Deal me in,” she said.

“My lady,” he said. “At long last.”

She smiled radiantly. “I know.”

Master Tethras cleared his throat. “Dorian? About that double or nothing?”

Lord Pavus harrumphed and pulled out his coin purse, again.


	38. Affections and Separations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland triumphs socially, Mr. Hawke consults with Lady Montilyet and begins a dangerous journey, Miss Cousland asks questions of the Iron Bull, Warden Blackwall describes Grey Wardenness to Mr. Trevelyan, the party has a laugh, and Miss Cousland is the woman for the diplomatic job.

“I should really go,” said Miss Cousland. “Reluctant though I am to flee while the battlefield is still, ah…” her lips turned up in a decidedly unexpected smile, “mine.”

“Miss Cousland, you’re a heartbreaker,” said Master Tethras. “You’re in for next week?”

“If the world is still here? You may count on it.”

Turin leaped to his feet. “Miss Cousland–”

“Yes?”

“Er–” He realized he had nothing permissible to say. “Good night.”

“Oh. Of course. Good night, Mr. Trevelyan.”

He watched her go, and was helpless.

“Smooth,” said Master Tethras.

“I am never smooth around her,” said Turin, and was immediately fixed by the accuracy of that statement. “I mean – I never need to be. Or want to.”

“Right. Yeah. I see you that and raise another crown if you have one.”

Discretion, decided Turin, was the better part of any virtue that would get him out of there faster.

***

Later, under the stars, Hawke separated from the shadows to find Lady Josephine exiting the tavern.

“Mr. Hawke?” she said in her musical lilt. “You are out late.”

“So are you, you predator. As you’re not fluttering against the nearest lamp I can only assume you’re the other sort of night thing, and clutch my pearls accordingly.”

“Ah,” said Lady Josephine, smiling, “but you are the harmless sort of creature who chases lights?”

“Only the best ones. I wanted to speak to you in something approaching privacy.”

“And the main yard of Skyhold was your idea for this?”

He laughed. “I don’t see anyone else.”

“Fair point. Walk with me.”

“That is my last game,” said Hawke. “The leads you brought up in the Free Marches will wait no more.”

“If there is anything more you require for the journey…”

“Only your good word, my lady, that I may treasure it on the road.”

“Fair winds and safe travels to you, then,” she said, slipping into a singsong blessing from Nevarra. “Fine trade and fine fortune, good roads and good fare, fair winds and safe travels, and write once you’re there.”

“Lady Josephine. When I have met with my sister…if she is agreeable…if I can return here, and surely I shall write to you whether or not…” He reached out to catch her hands and ran his thumbs lightly over her knuckles. “Would you wait for me?”

Her lips parted. Her usual smile turned shy. “Why, Mr. Hawke…if your sister is agreeable, of course.”

“She will be. She must be. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

“Then go find her, Mr. Hawke. Maker willing, we will meet again at Skyhold.”

Hawke squeezed her hands once more, then bowed and hurried toward the stables.

***

“Iron Bull,” said Fionne, “are you still reporting to the Ben-Hassrath?” It was an indiscreet question, but then, it was an indiscreet situation.

“I am,” said Iron Bull. “You may have noticed I’m feeding the reports they send me to Sister Leliana. Everybody benefits.”

“I knew one other Qunari. He was a Sten, and an advance scout. We became friends but he always knew he would be in the vanguard when the Qunari move against the southern lands.”

“We do do other things with our time. Other than trying to conquer Seheron and menace Kirkwall and frighten Fereldan children.”

“I understand. Still, your position may become delicate.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No. You are useful here, besides which people, including me, like you.”

Iron Bull perked up. “You do? It’s always hard to tell with you.”

“Really and truly. Any man who covers my back in combat as expertly as you do is a friend to me.”

“You’re welcome to come out with the Chargers any time you like. We’re on the hard edge of things, we could always use another hand. Or musket, sword, or weapon of choice. Have you ever considered taking up two-hand swords?”

“I lack the weight to wield them meaningfully,” said Fionne. “You would find me trying to pull it back out of the ground after every swing. It would be very slow.”

“All right, all right. Sabre and musket it is. I won’t say you’re not an expert at it. Grey Warden training?”

“Grey Warden training,” she agreed. “It was surprisingly easy to get back into the fray.”

“Yes, well. Some muscle memory will do that. Even across years.”

“You talk like you weren’t always a shock trooper.”

“No, they always had me fighting. Just different tools for different times.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.”

He gave her a new look. “That’s a deep rabbit hole.”

“Sometime when we have time.”

He laughed. “All right, maybe.”

***

“Warden.”

Blackwall never hesitated to look Turin in the eye. It was a trifle surprising given what Turin knew about him, but Blackwall was nothing if not self-possessed. “Inquisitor?”

“Thank you for your advice today. It’s one thing to have the leadership’s view of Orlais but I fear most would-be advisors are out of touch with the realities of a military operation.”

“Things out on the ground never change. I’m happy to help.”

“Yes, exactly.” It was strange being alone with him. Since his Joining he had crept out into the light for some gatherings, but not very many. He seemed to prefer his own company here as he had before he joined the Inquisition. “How are…things?” said Turin.

“I’m doing my part. Now that Captain Rutherford knows my background he’s putting me to work in Orlais in areas where they wouldn’t have known Thom Rainier. Figures I know the culture. It’s a little strange. But I get by.”

“How is being a Grey Warden? Is it very difficult? Miss Cousland would never talk about it.” And here, now, he finally had a chance at understanding.

Blackwall didn’t blink. “It’s…grim. To put it bluntly, I keep waiting for her to tell me the good part.”

“The good part is saving the world.”

Warden Blackwall canted his head. “That’ll have to do.”

***

“So then,” said the Iron Bull, “I ran up for her back leg. Now the kick on these things can kill a man, so I stayed to one side. I swung for a tendon and, wouldn’t you know it, sank it so deep I couldn’t get it out again. So here I am with a dragon I just pissed off...”

“Language,” chided Lady Cassandra.

“A dragon I just hacked off,” corrected the Iron Bull, “except the hacking hadn’t quite worked. She’s spinning around. My weapon’s suddenly one angry dragon-width away.”

“I thought it would be an opportune time to rejoin the fight,” said Lord Pavus.

“You weren’t that injured,” said the Iron Bull. 

“Oh, no, I was just down one leg and bleeding from the head. And I still did more damage in the ensuing five minutes of the fight.”

“You could have kept her at least sort of still,” said the Iron Bull. “I was chasing my axe the whole time you were annoying her.”

“Annoying? Mastering!” Lord Pavus made a flourishing gesture. “I would have had her eating out of my hand given another few minutes.”

“Or eating your hand,” muttered the Iron Bull.

“Now, then. Don’t be jealous just because I had her for longer.”

Sera scoffed. “Get a room, you two.”

Lady Cassandra frowned. “Get what?”

Master Tethras burst out laughing. So did the Iron Bull.

“What I believe Miss Sera is trying to say,” said Lady Josephine, clearly endeavoring to conceal any sign of amusement, “is that your exchanges have a tone to them as if conceived in private. I for one find it most endearing to listen.”

Lord Pavus beamed. “Do you hear that, Bull? We’re endearing!”

“I know I am, but what are you?” rumbled the Iron Bull.

“Oh!” Lady Cassandra’s countenance crumbled into an expression of utter disgust. “Miss Sera!”

After a moment’s pause Master Tethras, the Iron Bull, Lord Pavus, and Miss Sera dissolved into laughter, louder than before. Lady Josephine found a sudden need to wipe her mouth with her napkin. Lady Cassandra glowered over all, but could not from sheer force of will unsay what had been said. Dinner did not continue until the guests had somewhat managed to compose themselves, which took some time.

***

“Miss Cousland, dear, did Mr. Trevelyan ever draw any conclusions about Queen Anora’s proposed summit?”

“I’m not certain? Mr. Trevelyan, did you–”

“I heard,” said Mr. Trevelyan with asperity. Madame Vivienne’s games were never welcome but, like a bad penny, always seemed to turn up. “While a stable Orlais is desirable I have no wish to see it turned into a stable Orlais-with-Ferelden-underfoot.” He sighed. “I’m just not certain who to send. Emperor Gaspard respects me, or at the very least is grateful for my intervention at Halamshiral, but Queen Anora is an utter stranger to me.”

“It seems to me you have your strongest negotiator right here,” said Vivienne. “Our former Warden-Commander Cousland placed both of them on their thrones. Let her go see that the Inquisition’s requirements are met.”

Fionne could not restrain a blush. “Please. I never asked for that responsibility. And it would be terribly, terribly gauche to resume negotiating with the Queen now. We have gotten along these last eleven years chiefly by never admitting our short acquaintance.”

Madame Vivienne sneered ever so slightly. “You can shy away from your own prominence, but recognize that prominence it is.”

“Without certain care Gaspard might easily take out his nationalistic fervour on Ferelden,” Mr. Trevelyan allowed.

“He will not,” said Fionne.

“Oh, a patriot?” drawled Vivienne. “My dear, I would never have guessed.”

“Memories sting. Old houses, old ways. Black Blight breaking, countryside cracking.” Cole turned up his head. “I didn’t know.”

“My enemy was always the Blight. But the world I defended was Ferelden. The Inquisition carries a larger scope now. But I shall not see my homeland traded away.”

“You had Ferelden’s steadiest defender against Orlais publicly executed,” said Vivienne. “That seems a touch counterproductive.”

Fionne took the accusation in stride. “If Teyrn Loghain yet lived Ferelden would still be at war with Orlais. That, or it would be defeated after the Blight weakened it. I did not relish killing him. I think he understood the laws of necessity as well as a Grey Warden, and better than some of those. But he was trying to fight the wrong foe and it was killing us.”

“I never realized you were so involved,” Mr. Trevelyan said, a little weakly. 

“Of course you didn’t,” Vivienne said soothingly. “Queen Anora has been the author of Ferelden’s fate these last eleven years. But the Hero who died and the Heroine who lived were the shadows behind her power.”

“Wondering, why not take it?” said Cole. “You knew better than she did.”

“I could not,” Fionne said flatly. And, reluctantly, “I can attend the talks. Perhaps Queen Anora will listen. Perhaps Emperor Gaspard will remember his gratitude. Perhaps all I have to do is ensure that both countries agree to the Inquisition’s presence between them.”

“All this falls into the realm of common sense,” said Mr. Trevelyan, “and you are possessed of a large quantity of that. You have my thanks for seeing to it. The whole south will be stronger once Ferelden and Orlais reach an understanding.”

“Then an understanding they will reach.” That was something Fionne could resolve herself for. This was the life she had fled, many years ago, but now that it was here she felt somewhat ready to face it. And that was a comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the home stretch now. Posting might speed up, dunno yet.


	39. In All Decisions, Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Miss Cousland checks in with Mr. Trevelyan while he is shooting, the Inquisition plans an itinerary for the Inquisitor, Iron Bull’s Chargers get an invitation with trouble, and Lady Josephine receives a letter.

Fionne was conservative during live-target days. The birds brought for the purpose were limited in number and she hated to rob other warriors of the chance to shoot.

Doubly so, she thought, when that warrior was Turin Trevelyan.

She had been fiddling with the action on her musket; now she raised her head and met Mr. Trevelyan’s eye. He was closing in with his own black-polished firearm.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” she said. She wondered whether he preferred that to ‘Inquisitor.’ He certainly never corrected her. “Here for a little practise with something that won’t bite back?”

“I could just keep shooting everything I meet outside Skyhold but that’s not likely to make me friends,” he said. He was looking particularly upright and bright-eyed, not that she noticed. “I need the practise. Particularly if we are to continue to investigate troubled places.”

“We have no shortage of troubled places,” she agreed. “Here, take my place. I wasn’t going to do much more.”

“I don’t wish to rob you of practise time.”

She shook her head. “Go on.”

He took his coat off, to her discomfort, and hung it on a nearby rack. Then he took up his musket once more. His form was flawless, a trait he only sometimes had time and terrain for in the field. His legs were set firmly, his shoulders relaxed in his shirt while he brought the gun up. The wind touched his hair and blew one black lock free. And Fionne realized that she could not possibly stand there staring at him for another moment.

Behind her on cue the keepers at the far end of the range released a fat pigeon, and Mr. Trevelyan tracked it for a few seconds before firing. It dropped in feathery quiet. Fionne was running the whole time, slowing only to arrange her skirts before retreating indoors.

***

The merry group had gathered in Skyhold’s largest chair-furnished room, and were presently gathered in a circle. Turin noted that Miss Cousland seemed in good spirits, and was glad for it. Her disappearance had bewildered and dispirited him, but she was not so angry as to snub him in public. It was a modestly cheering thought. Difficult, in a way, knowing how his heart leaped to the point of pain with every smile, but still, cheering.

“Come now,” said Turin, “if I’m to lead an international coalition I should at least travel internationally. In more than my bear-slaying capacity. Where should I visit to round myself out?”

“Antiva,” Lady Josephine said immediately. “Antiva City is a wonder, especially this time of year. The colours are beyond description.”

“So are the smells,” said Miss Cousland with an impish smile. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“The leather-making district may be left off of polite tours,” Lady Josephine said, half smiling. “Unless you prefer to be overwhelmed.”

“We have Antiva City, then,” said Turin. “Val Royeaux has been done, of course, if usually on unpleasant errands. What about Tevinter? Minrathous?”

“Oh, my, wouldn’t they like to have a look at you,” said Lord Pavus. “Sending in an ordinary man to a country of mages might not be the wisest approach, the more so because half of them will want to study you. And half of them will probably want to kill you, without making it overtly look so. Possibly the same half, unfortunately. Or I could just paint you pictures to get the major sights, that’s probably safer all around.”

“No Minrathous. Free Marches? I mean, apart from my own home, which wasn’t very exciting while I was there. Kirkwall, maybe?”

Master Tethras scoffed. “Nobody should go to Kirkwall. Hawke shouldn’t go to Kirkwall, and he owns two houses there.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Warden Blackwall. “Starkhaven, maybe. Kirkwall? Give it a miss.”

“This is becoming a much shorter tour than I anticipated. Anything in Nevarra?”

Lady Cassandra looked up from her needlepoint. “The Grand Necropolis of Nevarra City is unlike anything you will find elsewhere. I could show you if you wanted. And if there is ever time.”

“Excellent. What about Rivain?”

Master Tethras looked thoughtful. “Well, I know a lady. She might get you through Llomerryn without you losing your purse, shirt and shoes. It’s a colourful place, I’ll give it that.”

“You might try Weisshaupt,” Warden Blackwall said slowly. “I only ever hear of Grey Wardens going there but it must have some perspective unique to the area. I or Miss Cousland could go with you, I don’t think she’s ever been.”

“I have not,” said Miss Cousland, looking demurely downward. “Perhaps someday.”

Turin wondered what it would be like to tour distant places and beautiful sights with her. Her with him. He shivered a little to think of it.

“But we’re leaving out Miss Cousland’s country,” said Lady Josephine. “You’ve been to Redcliffe, but Denerim is Ferelden in miniature.”

“Which returns us to the topic of smell,” said Lord Pavus. “Ferelden smells of wet dog. Surely you’ve noticed this on our journeys.”

“I assumed that was just the mire,” said Turin.

“Oh, no, the whole place. One of its peculiar local charms, Ferelden.”

“Perhaps the rest of you just smell of the absence of dogs,” said Miss Cousland.

“Are we leaving non-human territories out?” said Master Tethras. “Because Seheron is not pleasant for humans. Orzammar, on the other hand, might tolerate surfacers who had a good reason to be there. Miss Cousland probably still has friends in the area. That’d be a sight, for people who like being underground.”

“Unlike you,” said Turin.

“Unlike me,” Master Tethras said lazily. “Very unlike me.”

“We must arrange something,” said Lady Josephine, “as soon as Corypheus is dealt with. It will be the diplomatic event of the decade.”

“I’ve no doubt it will be educational,” said Turin.

She smiled indulgently. “You may enjoy it very much.”

“It’s one thing for us to protect everyone,” said Turin. “I think we’d be better off for knowing them, too.”

***

“Dinner,” said Turin.

“Dinner,” said Iron Bull, his face all smiles and eyepatch. “A formal invitation from the Qunari. It was their suggestion, I trust there’s no problem with it.”

“I am only startled,” Turin said hastily. “I was not aware that the Qunari made alliances, especially among lands that can have no profit to them.”

That smile took on something of slyness. “Don’t undersell yourself,” he said. 

“Ahem,” said Turin, looking for somewhere else to cast his gaze. It would not do to tread too close to the blunt fact that the Qunari might well invade the southern lands tomorrow, and might not have a very difficult time of it. In light of that awareness Turin considered Iron Bull’s every show of civility a welcome one. “So, dinner?”

The matter of the attending party was of crucial importance. The Iron Bull and his mercenary Chargers, of course…and yet, if they should all prove agents of the Qunari Ben-Hassrath on a mission of enmity, they would need more. Lady Josephine, in the hopes that diplomacy would prevail. Then, for protection, Lady Cassandra, Warden Blackwall, and Miss Cousland.

The venue was a castle by the sea, an old one now tenanted by unassuming nobility who seemed to accept the luminary assembly with wide-eyed courtesy. The Qunari commander termed himself Sten, and introduced retainers merely as their ranks. Turin tried to maintain his gravitas in the face of four consecutive Karasaads. To his great startlement, Miss Cousland stepped forward and asked for news of another Sten, one who had traversed Ferelden twelve years ago. She had friends, it seemed, in the unlikeliest places. Sten scowled and said he knew nothing of him. Miss Cousland, looking chastened, returned to the fold.

The first two dishes alternated between Fereldan cuisine and Qunari. Turin found the latter very hot, though not, it turned out, as startling as the third course, which opened with the tremendous sound of something striking the doors.

The windows burst at once in a terrific cataclysm. Fire followed.

“Venatori,” barked Warden Blackwall, leaping back from the table with an assiduousness that suggested he had been ready for something of action. Turin seized his musket from beside his chair and took aim at the next robed menace to turn his way. Around him was an uproar of Corypheus’ minions. The Qunari fought like machines, but they were outnumbered.

They were outnumbered.

“With me,” shouted Turin, firing. Two doors were not presently swarming with Venatori. He chose one and started slowly towards it. Around him the melee roared. Turin shot. He heard Sten’s voice rising above the din; what words, he did not know. But the Iron Bull’s broadcloth back rose out of the sea of combat. “Are you serious? They’ll kill them!”

More words. The Qunari warriors were filing back out of the hall, pushing Venatori aside with something like disgust. In its own way, the Inquisition was doing the same. The Chargers fought a closing battle. Then, a final, fluid statement.

One of the Chargers cried out. Turin, returning his focus to the fight, aimed and fired and reloaded and prayed. 

Then he heard it, rumbling through the melee, clear and plain in Common: “That is an order.”

The Venatori were not slowing. Iron Bull swung his axe at a climbing fool without taking his attention from Sten.

“Mr. Bull!” shouted Turin. “I believe we can prevail!”

The Iron Bull shuddered. He roared. And, pushing Sten away, he turned back toward the battle. “Chargers, form up on me!”

Whatever Sten spat in retreating, the Iron Bull did not translate. Nor did he need to.

The retreat was made in good order. Iron Bull swept up a wounded comrade and carried her out while the Charges and the Inquisition held the enemy back.

The Iron Bull explained on the slow ride home. The Venatori were an unexpected annoyance in the Qunari view. Sten wished to withdraw and seek worthier battles – at the cost of the Chargers. He had underestimated two things, of course: the Inquisition, and the Bull.

“Thank you,” said Turin. It seemed the only thing to say. “Are you all right?”

Iron Bull looked at tfhe wounded Charger’s bandaged arm. “I will be.”

***

“Lady Josephine, you’re looking very well.”

Lady Josephine simpered at the war table.

“She got a letter from Mr. Hawke,” said Sister Leliana.

“Leliana!” said Lady Josephine. “I realize you handle our correspondence but you could handle it with a little discretion.”

“It was a long letter,” Sister Leliana said happily.

“Really!”

“I didn’t read it,” continued Sister Leliana.

“Thank the Maker for small blessings,” grumbled Lady Josephine.

“But I’m sure it’s full of promises for when he returns, which hopefully is very soon.”

“So how are we going to deal with that endangered political match in Val Royeaux?” said Lady Josephine.

“It was kind of him to write,” said Turin. “I’m not sure I would have expected him to do so.”

“He is a gentleman, and he promised,” said Lady Josephine.

“I thought him a flirt at first,” said Turin. “I believe now I was wrong.”

“Oh, he flirts,” said Sister Leliana.

“Leliana!” repeated Lady Josephine.

“Not with anyone but you, for a long time now,” Leliana said soothingly.

“Are we dealing with Val Royeaux?” Lady Josephine said loudly.

“We have more than one match to consider,” said Sister Leliana. “I just want to be sure we’re all aware.”

“Really!” repeated Lady Josephine.

“Lady Josephine,” said Miss Cousland, “we have few enough occasions for public celebration so long as we live in Corypheus’s shadow. Let us take advantage of those opportunities that do come.”

Lady Josephine visibly smoothed her ruffled feathers, if not her ruffled dress. “When I know there is cause for celebration, I shall be the first to celebrate.”

“Now,” said Turin, ready to release the lady from her suffering, “about Val Royeaux…”


	40. Places of Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady Cassandra’s connexions come calling, Miss Cousland seeks solace with Sister Leliana, and the Inquisition’s next step is planned.

“Inquisitor!”

Lady Cassandra’s footsteps echoed in the corridor in brisk but genteel cadence. Turin slowed his own step and turned about. His compatriot's complexion was both flushed and trembling, her hands dedicated to wringing one another. “Lady Cassandra,” he said, startled at this uncharacteristic display of distress, “what’s wrong?”

“I do not rightly know,” she said. “Oh, that it should come to this! – You know, Inquisitor, that the Order of Seekers acts as a check and an investigator for the Order of Templars and the rest of the Chantry. As a Seeker myself that was my responsibility until I took the path of the original Seekers and declared the Inquisition. And yet…”

“And yet?” Turin prompted. 

Cassandra pressed out her breath as though it had become offensive to her. “I have been searching for my brethren and heard from none since Corypheus intruded himself upon us all, with no result. And then – today–!”

“Cassandra, I pray you, don’t leave me in suspense.”

Cassandra pulled a card from her sleeve and waved it too quickly to read. “Lord Seeker Lucius, the real one, the one not bound to the Envy demon – the very man who led the Templars in walking out on us in Val Royeaux, has invited us to dinner!”

“What?” The hope of an alliance that had long since been extinguished flared again, bright in Turin’s view. “But this is wonderful news! If we can align the Seekers with the Templars once more, we can only benefit.”

“I pray you are right, yet I fear the worst. With the Venatori active, with red lyrium being trafficked across the country…can we truly believe that the Lord Seeker means well?”

“Can we afford not to investigate?”

“I cannot put you in danger, Inquisitor. I pray you, let me bring a few picked warriors who would not embarrass us in their manners.”

“Was it you he invited? Or me?” Cassandra’s silence was all the answer Turin needed. “You must accompany me. We will take a few more warriors of gentle breeding. I believe we have nothing to fear.”

“I shall try to partake of your confidence, Inquisitor.”

The setting was distant Caer Oswin of Ferelden, and Turin’s party came too late.

They rode amidst the aged trees to the equally ancient castle. Lord Seeker Lucius, seemingly unharmed by the Envy demon that had lain in wait at Therinfal Redoubt, greeted them with a cordial condescension that left Turin wondering exactly what his intentions were. The remainder of the place was oppressively shadowed and silent. The Lord Seeker and two tall, silent warriors conducted Turin’s party to a long dining hall. The walls were set around with weapons and armour. Strangely, several pieces seemed conspicuously missing, as though someone had recently removed them.

“Let me welcome you,” the Lord Seeker said, not for the first time. “Truly an honour. Lady Cassandra, our prodigal daughter. And Warden Cousland, how…unique…to have your presence here.”

Lady Cassandra voiced what all three must have been thinking. “You were not so glad to see us in Val Royeaux.”

“I know, I was going about things entirely the wrong way. It will be cleaner now.”

“What?” said Cassandra.

And every Seeker in the room started to move.

“My eyes have been opened,” said the Lord Seeker. “And the world will be reborn from complete destruction. For months now we have been gathering Templars. Reshaping them to better fit the path to the dark.” He went on in that vein throughout the clamour of battle. Turin found himself reduced to his sabre, which he employed with alacrity. They were badly outnumbered, though, as the display pieces from the wall were employed in far less pleasing fashion. Turin and Miss Cousland came together, back to back, Turin only praying he could live up to his mentor’s sabre lessons. 

It is generally recognized that a burst of buckshot is a tasteless but definite way of announcing one’s presence in the room. Master Tethras, having thus unceremoniously announced himself, put his back against the wall and loaded a heavier shot.

The fight reached a lull while the aggressors recovered from the shock. “You,” spat the Lord Seeker, “were not invited.”

“So few of us were! Boy, aren’t you glad we were suspicious of the short-list, no-guards invite?” Master Tethras cocked his musket and took a look around the room, passing his aim over and among wounded warriors everywhere, ending in a direct line to the whimpering Lord Seeker. “I sure am.”

“You are no gentleman, dwarf.”

“And you are no dwarf, gentleman. We all have our flaws.” Master Tethras made a show of looking around, but Bianca’s aim never wavered. “Lord Inquisitor? Everyone all right?”

In the aftermath they recovered a great tome of Seeker’s history. Lady Cassandra took charge of it, looking pensive. Then, with no further opposition, they returned home.

Turin saw little of her the next few days, and she seemed newly haunted when he did find her. But no amount of asking would yield him satisfactory answers.

***

Fionne crept up the stairs to the loft where Sister Leliana lived and worked. Various officials sat at their various desks pursuing their various tasks. It was a complex operation Leliana presided over, and Fionne knew well what an iron will kept things under control.

“Miss Cousland.” Leliana looked up from her desk and smiled. “Please, sit.”

Fionne took the chair so indicated. “Leliana,” she said. “How are reports?”

Leliana pinched the bridge of her nose. “Less nuanced when Miss Sera gets involved,” she said, smiling wanly. “I could use a change of subject, if only for a little while.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Lately, when I pray – and I do pray. I’m just not sure it makes sense anymore. And you, as the prime mover of my faith when I was young and in pain, might be what I need to recover.”

“Come now, I was not so instrumental as that.”

“You were! Your words about the Maker, about how his hand still exists in creation – did you give that up when you became the left hand of the Divine and thus the enforcer of orthodoxy?”

“That…is a complicated question, Fionne. In my early days as lay sister I believed the Maker spoke to me. Then…then the world fell apart. The troubles came upon us. Good men and women, like Mother Justinia, died, for no reason and no benefit. The Divine herself sat idle. It has seemed, since the Inquisition started, that the Maker truly is looking elsewhere.”

“I think the right people are coming to the right places. Mr. Trevelyan’s leadership has brought us this far. Brought us together this far. Maybe we don’t have a sign from the Maker. But we have the resources we need to put the world to rights. And if that isn’t His favour, I don’t know what is.”

Sister Leliana smiled a little bit. She said nothing.

“I owe you my faith. I couldn’t believe in anything when the Blight started, when my family and life were torn from me and the burden of the Wardens placed upon me. It seemed to make no sense. It seemed incredibly unjust. And then you came with your signs and your songs. – Do you sing anymore, Sister Nightingale?”

“Not in public. It doesn’t befit a spymaster.”

An incomplete answer, and Leliana had to know it. “You were a bard, too.”

“That was many years ago.”

“Would you sing again? Right now? Something simple. Come to the Fountain, I’ll sing the man’s part.”

“Fionne, really.”

“I could ask you in public at a salon. I think you would prefer it here.”

Leliana cleared her throat and stole a glance around the room. “All right. This once, for the sake of our friendship.”

“For the sake of our hope, Leliana.”

She finally smiled, a little bit. “For hope.”

She lifted her voice, barely enough for the tune to come out true, and let Fionne’s quavering voice weave around and fill in the harmony. And for a time, at least, nothing could bother them.

***

Sister Leliana’s eyes sparkled in the flickering candlelight. “We know where Corypheus is going.”

“What!” Turin stood to attention over the war table. “Where?”

“A place called the Arbor Wilds.”

“The Arbor Wilds? Site of an ancient elven temple, is it not?” said Lady Morrigan.

“The very same. His people have been raiding elven ruins for months now. I think they have finally found something.”

“More elven ruins?” said Turin. “Should we bring Mr. Solas in?”

“He is probably still painting,” grumbled Captain Rutherford. “Of all the times to take up a hobby…”

“What is Corypheus looking for there?”

“That is the question,” said Lady Morrigan. “I have a guess, but must finish some research first. I expect the rest of you have some planning as to how to get our forces there before his can gather in strength.”

“I expect so,” said Captain Rutherford. “When you have answers, tell us.”

“Yes, I intend to.”


	41. Mirror, Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Inquisitor deals with mystical mirrors. (I thought Morrigan was not to be trusted with them?)

“Inquisitor. I have something to show you, if you’ve a mind.”

Turin nodded cordially at the people he had until moments ago been conversing with, then turned toward Lady Morrigan. “What is it? Did you find what Corypheus is looking for?”

“Walk with me,” she said imperturbably. “‘Tis not far.”

She led him down through the castle’s garden to an odd gable jutting out from the outer wall. He could not recall having been there before, or if he had, it was long before it had been cleaned and repaired. Lady Morrigan stayed half a step ahead, frequently tilting her head just enough to see that he was following. She didn’t move entirely like a lady; more like a feral animal, slowed to a walk for reasons he could not ask of her.

She fitted a key to the door as though she owned the place. He followed her without comment into a high room, empty but for a window at the top far wall and…and below it, a pointed arch worked around shimmering glass, twice a man’s height and perhaps three times his width. As a household decoration it was very grand.

“This is an eluvian,” said Lady Morrigan. “Don’t tell Miss Cousland unless you want to see her in an apoplectic fit.”

“She said you couldn’t be trusted with mirrors,” said Turin.

“This one may yet save us.” Morrigan tilted her head and smiled. “Miss Cousland’s preferences notwithstanding.”

The opportunity of the glass paled next to the opportunity for explanation. “She has discretion enough not to tell me what the bad blood between you is. If it is not too indelicate to ask – what history is there that leads to such tension between otherwise admirably accomplished ladies?”

Morrigan shrugged. “We fought the Blight together. We parted ways after the great battle, when she did not see fit to share the spoils of war. She was heartbroken at the time because her lover who would be king was slain by the archdemon. She is always heartbroken when her friends’ ploys for power fail.

“For she is drawn to power. Many people are, ‘tis true. After her great disappointment in kingmaking she suddenly decided that Grey Wardens do not partake of the politics of Thedas. In fact that policy lasted just until another handsome young leader began gathering a nation unto himself. Then, suddenly, Grey Wardens became necessary to the defense of the world.”

Turin folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “I cannot believe her as mercenary as that.” His heart ached to imagine otherwise.

“And that, Inquisitor, is her deadliest trait. She clothes herself in virtue to ward off criticism. Take it away, though, and you find a calculating climber. Much as she believes me to be. So yes. So long as her hypocrisy stands we are less than polite over the war table.”

“Even if you cannot find common ground, I implore you to remember the mission that brings us all there.”

“I do. Implore her, if you want a fruitless effort.”

“Lady Morrigan...”

“Yes?”

There were important things at work here, important enough that he could not antagonize anyone of wisdom and sense, not until these magical affairs were settled. “Your counsel is sound. Even when I choose against it at least you make sure I understand what I’m choosing.”

She arched one eyebrow and smiled. “‘Tis a fine thing, to be useful to an Inquisitor. I am glad you see it that way. Now…if we might continue?”

“Yes, by all means.”

“The eluvian is an elven artifact, from a time long before their empire was lost to human greed. I restored this one at great cost, but another lies within the Arbor Wilds, and that is what Corypheus seeks.” Morrigan touched her hair, a strangely unconscious gesture for one so self-possessed. “I found legends of an elven temple within the Arbor Wilds, untouched. It proved too dangerous for me to approach. But if Corypheus has turned southward, he could succeed where I failed.”

“I see. In part. What does it do?”

Lady Morrigan raised a hand. In a cold and prickling burst the mirror came to swirling blue life. “A more appropriate question,” she said, “is ‘where does it lead?’” And with no further ado, she walked into it and vanished.

Turin remembered Miss Cousland’s warnings. And yet, his explanation was waiting for him on the other side, and this thing seemed too wonderful not to investigate. He stepped in. It felt like walking through a gust of snow.

A peculiar forest surrounded him and his free-standing eluvian. He looked around in wonder at the dimly glowing world. Trees grew in globes of branches, all of them leafless and silent. More eluvians stood scattered, all dormant, some broken into pieces on the grey and drifting ground.

“If this place had a name,” said Lady Morrigan, “it has long been lost. I call it the Crossroads – where all eluvians meet, wherever they may be.”

“Including the one in the Arbor Wilds.”

“Including the one in the Arbor Wilds,” she agreed. “This place is not the Fade, but it is close to it. Close enough for Corypheus to rend asunder, I think, and pass bodily into the Fade.”

Awe crept through Turin’s veins and up his spine. These powers, these stakes, were so far removed from the life he had expected before all this began… “We will need your magic before this is done,” he said.

“And you will have it. I shall accompany you to the Wilds.”

 

***

The Arbor Wilds were infested with corrupted Grey Wardens and other monsters of Corypheus’ device. Inquisition agents had made inroads by the time Fionne and Mr. Trevelyan got there. 

“This should be interesting,” said Lady Morrigan.

“I have no doubt you are very interested in whatever power lies within an ancient temple,” said Fionne.

“It should benefit someone,” said Morrigan. “Would you not agree?”

Mr. Solas looked like he was biting his tongue. Fionne could sympathize.

Exactly where Corypheus was, they didn’t know until Fionne was close enough to feel the tickling in her mind that told her darkspawn were near. There were no tunnels nearby, no place for normal darkspawn to be hiding. Fionne pointed the way, and the others followed.

They stopped short when they reached the edge a broad pavilion. Corypheus himself stood, surrounded by what looked like his remaining bound Wardens. And on the pathway before them stood a number of hooded figures, calling out in an unfamiliar tongue. 

“You will not keep me from the Well of Sorrows,” rumbled Corypheus. Fionne looked to Lady Morrigan, who was looking at Mr. Trevelyan and shrugging. Corypheus went on: “Be honoured! Witness death at the hands of a new god!”

He approached two standing stones inscribed with runes. The defenders with their bows and their spears fell back.

Corypheus passed between the stones, and everything erupted in flame. He made it as far as the nearest defender, lifting the man with one hand and crushing him outright. The flames intensified. He tried to take another step, and failed, held in place by the twin streams of fire.

He burst, and was no more.

Fionne stared in disbelief. Had these sentinels done what all the power of the Inquisition could not do? And yet – the corrupted Wardens were chasing the sentinels into the temple. They had to move on.

When they passed the Warden who had fallen beside Corypheus, there was a noise.

The metamorphosis that followed defied polite description. Suffice it to say that the corpse rose and twisted itself, growing, swelling into Corypheus’s inimitable shape. 

Fionne sprinted forward, sabre raised, and began raining blows upon the monstrous shape taking form from the man’s corpse. She hacked off an arm and another began growing directly. The shape broadened its shoulders, raised its misshapen head: Corypheus in the new-made flesh.

He seized Fionne by the neck, his grip heated and wiry, and held her out to one side, eyeing her disinterestedly. In an instant –

Mr. Trevelyan did not give him that instant. He fired for the monster’s shoulder and it hit home. Fionne dropped. She was so close, so close…she closed again with Corypheus and tried one more desperate swing at his heart.

“Miss Cousland!” shouted Mr. Trevelyan. “Don’t! We can’t defeat him here!” 

Fionne caught up her skirts and ran to join them all in their forward retreat.

The party sprinted across the bridge and into the temple proper, and slammed the doors behind them. Blue flashed, more protective magic, and the door resounded with a heavy blow but held.

“Is everyone all right?” said Mr. Trevelyan.

“Yes,” said Fionne. “Thank you.”

“It gladdens me to hear it.”

“I am unharmed as well,” Lady Morrigan said idly.

“What next?” said Mr. Solas. “We were told Corypheus was here for an eluvian, but now he mentions a ‘Well of Sorrows.’”

“I am uncertain of what he referred to,” admitted Morrigan. “But if he seeks it, we must stop him.”

“His Wardens have a head start,” said Mr. Trevelyan. 

“Are we going to get back to how we saw Corypheus die?” said the Iron Bull.

Lady Morrigan nodded judiciously. “It seems his life force passed to the next blighted creature – darkspawn, or Grey Warden.”

“No,” Mr. Trevelyan said quietly. “No, that cannot be.”

“That he lives suggests it must be,” said Morrigan. “Do not fear. I believe we will have enough of his slaves to keep Corypheus’s essence from Miss Cousland.”

The Temple had requirements. Mr. Solas and Lady Morrigan did their best to translate the ancient elven. It was enough to distinguish the rituals for supplicants to Mythal. And, given what they had just seen of Corypheus, it seemed very, very important to remain in compliance.

And they did come upon the defenders who had slowed Corypheus. They were led by an elf who named himself Abelas. He seemed primarily interested in the respect paid thus far and the respect to be paid, and Fionne was relieved to know that they had gone through the proper motions. To trespass on these sentinels’ home was bad enough; at least they had done it with a minimum of ill manners.

But Abelas was still protective over the “vir’abelasan,” which Lady Morrigan – of course – named as the Well of Sorrows, the object of their new pursuit. Whatever gambit Morrigan was playing, it centred on this Well, and Fionne would have been glad to leave it to them. Only, she had just gotten a definite demonstration that they were not equipped to fend Corypheus away from it. Even if they did not take the Well for themselves, they had to destroy the invaders.

Corrupted Wardens forged ahead. Now Fionne and her party chased them. Down into a courtyard and around between high walls and out to the base of a hill, and here after cutting down more invaders the party stopped to breathe.

All except Lady Morrigan. Lady Morrigan disappeared.

Fionne looked around again to be sure. If she had vanished, it was probably in one of her animal forms. How small, then, if she couldn’t descry it now?

Someone burst past at a sprint. Bronze armour, deep hood – Abelas, summoning root-steps before him on his way up the hill. And a raven wheeled down ahead of him.

Well of Sorrows. Lady Morrigan. Of course.


	42. All in Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Morrigan drinks deep, Mr. Trevelyan waits for results, Miss Cousland stands vigil and receives reading materials from Lady Cassandra, Captain Rutherford and Lady Cassandra exchange words, and the Iron Bull fights fiercely. (Does he ever not do so?)

When Miss Cousland started sprinting up the stairs that the fleet elf had raised, Turin ran with her. At the top was a structured rectangular pool beneath the prismatic countenance of an eluvian.

Lady Morrigan in human form and Abelas glared at one another. “So, the sanctum is spoiled at last,” growled the ancient elf.

“You would have destroyed it yourself, given the chance to keep it out of my hands,” snarled Lady Morrigan.

“Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving!” said Abelas.

“Hear, hear,” murmured Miss Cousland. Turin shot her a scandalized look.

“Fool!” said Lady Morrigan. “You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows!”

“Have you considered that resting in the shadows is anyone’s right?” said Fionne.

“And you did nothing to benefit anyone until you were dragged back out,” said Lady Morrigan. “The Well offers power. Can we afford not to use it?”

Abelas made a disgusted gesture. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on through this. All that we were, all that we knew…it would be lost forever. But is that your desire? To partake of the vir’abelasan as best you can, to fight your enemy?”

“Always there is something to grasp at,” said Miss Cousland. “Isn’t there?”

Lady Morrigan drew herself further upright. “Has my learning ever brought you to harm?”

“Do not ever question my past with your powers, witch.”

“Miss Cousland,” said Turin. “Please. You and I are not mages, we might not even survive this. Mr. Solas…?”

“I shall not drink,” said Mr. Solas, with perfect gravitas. “Nor should you,” he addressed to Morrigan. “You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast.”

“I alone have the training to make use of this!”

It was enough for Turin. “Then Lady Morrigan must.”

Miss Cousland cast him an anguished look. He steeled himself. The byplay between her and Lady Morrigan could not be allowed to endanger them all. For Morrigan was right: they needed any power they could get to bring against Corypheus, or Corypheus would destroy them all.

“Take it,” said Turin. “Do what you need to.”

Morrigan picked up her skirts and stepped into the pool. A deeper step, and a deeper, and the water rose in ribbons and wisps around her. To the centre of the pool she waded and the water turned to shadow about her. For one terrifying moment she was submerged. And then the shadow dispersed, and she fell to her hands and knees. She said something in a tongue Turin didn’t know. Forcing her head up, she extended a hand toward the eluvian and the eluvian came alive in myriad shades of blue. Morrigan collapsed.

“Lady Morrigan!” Turin ran through the newly dry bed.

“There is no time,” warned Mr. Solas. “We must take the eluvian now.”

Turin gathered Lady Morrigan in his arms. She was so light as to feel ethereal, and so limp as to feel half dead. He held her close and plunged into the Crossroads, the place in between.

It was Mr. Solas who took the lead in the maze of standing eluvians. Turin did not question his direction. His only concern was to reach Skyhold and ensure his ally was safe. Miss Cousland followed on his heels, grim-faced.

They made it. Corypheus was held at bay for one more day, at least, and maybe more.

Morrigan he settled in a private room, where she lay and muttered without rest. Miss Cousland volunteered to stand guard. Turin remembered Lady Morrigan’s allegations. Perhaps more to the point he remembered the discord between the two women. “Miss Cousland. It pains me to ask, but I must. Will she return to wellness under your watch?”

Miss Cousland’s countenance clouded. “I shall not harm her unless she seeks to harm me. This I swear.”

And it would have to do.

***

Miss Cousland’s absence was a constant tug in the back of Turin’s mind, a shadow where the light should be, a new dimension to the silences that fell on his journeys. He did his best to stay engaged with his work, but his thoughts unbidden turned back to the woman sitting by the witch in the sick room at Skyhold.

This was for practical reasons. Lady Morrigan’s newfound power was the only new weapon they had with which to counter Corypheus’s incursions. That room at Skyhold held all his hopes, which since he could not gather to his heart he had to release to Skyhold’s shelter.

If Miss Cousland was really just here in the Inquisition for the power, she would surely have broken the silence between them by now. She would not have been such an immoveable proponent of the right at the expense of the easy. She wouldn’t be the woman he knew and…and knew.

Though he wished fervently to defend her, he had no one to defend her to.

He traveled, he fought, he took reports and laid plans, but his heart was elsewhere, and could not be otherwise. 

***

Patience was not of Fionne Cousland’s virtues.

She tried for it to be. But, in all situations except the purely social, direct boldness had always earned her more than any amount of watching and waiting. And yet here she had nothing to fight.

She sat beside Lady Morrigan, who alone might have the answers they needed to survive, and wished she had something to fight.

She dragged her attention back to her book. The Chant of Light was, perhaps, not the most exciting reading, but it was soothing to go through the familiar canticles. The fact that Lady Morrigan would most likely hiss catlike if she knew she was in a room with the Chantry’s holy book was merely an additional pleasure atop the reading.

A knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” said Fionne.

Lady Cassandra entered. “Miss Cousland,” she said at once. “How is the patient?”

“Unchanged. Which means, at least, that she is not worse. How is Skyhold?”

“Everyone is wondering when Corypheus will strike next. What defenses we raise we must ready soon.”

“I know,” said Fionne. “I have asked Mr. Solas to look at Lady Morrigan again, but I fear he will again find nothing wrong except whatever it was the Well of Sorrows put in her head.”

“Ah – but I came here for a reason.” From somewhere in her skirts she produced a…book, seemingly a number of booklets bound together in reasonably good quality. At a quick look as Lady Cassandra handed it over Fionne realized that a few sections had already been thumbed over, more than once.

“Swords and Shields,” she read, admiring the armoured warrior on the cover.

“It is not mine,” Cassandra said firmly. “In fact it is Mr. Trevelyan’s. He sent it and asked me not to tell you.”

“And you betrayed his confidence?” There was a circumstance Fionne would never have guessed. “Lady Cassandra, I’m shocked.”

Lady Cassandra looked stubborn. “The secrecy benefits no one. If he cares enough to send it, let him.”

Caring? Fionne felt her cheeks warm at the implicit accusation. “Oh. Oh, this isn’t one of those books, is it?”

“The story is really quite good,” said Cassandra. “Even if it does end in a cliffhanger.” She stopped herself, her hand flying to her mouth. Then she flushed and cleared her throat. “You must tell me, somewhere without an audience, what you think of the viscount.”

“You think I’m going to finish this before Lady Morrigan awakes?”

Well. We’ll find out.” Lady Cassandra shifted from foot to foot. “You’ll tell us what she has to say.”

“As soon as she says something in something other than ancient Elven, yes. I pray that she lives to do more than opening one eluvian.”

“You never seemed to care for her.”

“I don’t trust her. But in the matter of self-preservation she is endlessly resourceful – and, yes, well educated and ingenious. She will help us defeat Corypheus. That she will take every ounce of power she can grasp in the end, and leave us to our own devices afterward – well, that is the price for allying with Lady Morrigan. I don’t know whether Emperor Gaspard knew that, or whether she simply manipulated him into offering her services. Perhaps she sensed she would get more here than all of Orlais could offer her.”

“She has more now,” said Cassandra, looking at the restless woman on the bed. “If she survives, sane, she may yet regret it.”

***

The battle plans were empty, not knowing where Corypheus might appear or how to fight him once he was there. Still, Lady Cassandra and Captain Rutherford, assisted at various times by the other advisors of the Inquisition, tried.

Captain Rutherford had seemed preoccupied throughout. Now he adjusted his cravat and grimaced. After trying a few unvoiced words on his tongue, he spoke. “There is something we need to discuss once Corypheus is dead.”

Lady Cassandra surveyed the great map without looking up. “I expect there will be a great deal. Our international treaties, our military movements, our lines of supply…”

Captain Rutherford coughed. “Yes, of course.” He buried his hands in his coat’s ruff. “The logistics of changing the Inquisition’s condition to whatever it is it’s going to be will be daunting, of course.”

“Knowing you, you have a plan to propose.”

Captain Rutherford smiled as if divining a double meaning, at least one of which was flattering. “I do have a few minor ideas. But that’s to discuss later.” He sobered again. “There are some things you can’t ask when your focus needs to be elsewhere.”

“And our focus must be on this fight.”

“Yes.” Again he shifted. “I don’t like having to wait on an apostate.”

“One who may not recover, or if she does, may not recover into anything friendly to us.” Cassandra sighed. “Yet we seem to have no choice. What she learned in the Arbor Wilds will save or doom us all.”

“What we learned in the Arbor Wilds…immortality. How do you fight that?”

“We will find a way. We cannot do otherwise.”

“I sincerely pity anyone who stands in your way. Even if he deserves what he gets.”

Cassandra smiled a little bit. Moments later she seemed to come to a decision. “There is something we must discuss once Corypheus is dead.”

“Nothing bad, I hope?”

“We have known one another a long time.”

“Yes.”

“And certain questions raised early in our acquaintance may not always keep the same answer.”

“I imagine not. Tell me, is this trouble?”

“N–no, not trouble. But you are right. Our focus must be on this fight.” She frowned and nodded decisively. “Everything else can wait.” She flushed faintly, but had nothing more to say on the subject.

***

The Iron Bull took a vicious swing at the babbling Warden. He took another one. The malefactor dropped like a sack of stones.

“Iron Bull,” said Turin. “Can we talk?”

The Qunari looked around at the fallen. The battlefield was as far from civilization as they had ever been together, and it was not a comfortable place. “Sure,” he said.

“You’ve been…very fierce lately. Is everything all right?”

“Fierce is part of the style,” he said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is. You just don’t like it.”

“Is it about Lord Pavus? He has been particularly sparkling lately.”

“Heh. Yes, he’ll do that.”

“Then what happened?”

“Didn’t he tell you? After Corypheus is down he’s heading back to Tevinter to do some good in his home country.”

The thought struck, for the first time, that a Qunari and a Tevinter would not be welcome on their own home soil. Of course, that only mattered if they were leaving the Inquisition, which itself was unthinkable. “But…I thought…he and you…”

Iron Bull laughed. “Let me tell you something. There’s an insect native to Seheron, a butterfly, we call them nauqs. Showy little buggers. No one’s ever caught one alive. Because to capture them you have to damage their wings, and without their wings they curl up and die.” He wiped sweat from his brow and shrugged. “This nauq wants to fly off, well, he knows where to find me. So. Shall we?”


	43. The Apostate's Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady Morrigan divulges secrets, occult advise is sought, the Inquisition prepares to face Corypheus, and Mr. Trevelyan forbids Miss Cousland from participating.

“Morrigan,” said Fionne, for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Do you hear me?”

What Morrigan muttered was elvish, or maybe Elvhen, a tongue that no one but Mr. Solas seemed able to decipher and which Mr. Solas gave only the most cryptic interpretations of.

“Morrigan, rest.” The witch kept rolling back and forth, the baubles and dangling ends of her gown’s decorated neck waving with her every motion. “Please, you’re among friends and safe. Rest.”

Morrigan suddenly stopped, flat on her back, and her yellow eyes opened toward the ceiling. “For one so distrustful of stray mages,” she said, with shocking lucidity, “you seem very concerned for one greedy apostate.”

“Morrigan! Maker’s breath!” Fionne bit her lip to compose her thoughts. “What you did benefited us all, and I feared you would pay a heavy price for it.”

“Oh, I am still paying,” said Morrigan. “The voices in my head – the voices of hundreds through the ages. Priests and warriors, holy men and women. They gathered their will in this one place, and I have taken it, and I have taken them with me.”

“Is it…painful?”

“No. ‘Tis…wonderful. I doubt I could describe it if I tried.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No. Should I be?”

“It’s been over a week. I was looking into options for force-feeding you.”

“Again, the tender concern. Whence comes this?”

“You helped us at the Temple of Mythal. And yes, you took the nearest source of power by the horns and claimed it, but I cannot deny that you used it in our favour. We are all of us alive because you took the Well and used its power to open the eluvian.” Fionne stopped to think, until she noticed Morrigan’s sharp attention. “And you were in danger,” she said, “and far from home. Someone should care.”

“And you don’t trust me unattended.”

The burst of frankness caught Fionne off guard. And, she thought wryly, was well deserved. “And I don’t trust you unattended,” she agreed.

“There, was it so hard to say what you truly wanted to say? The practice can only improve you.” Morrigan stretched, a long arching maneuver, and sat up. “You are not the newly remade woman who left the palace in Denerim so long ago.”

“And you are not the woman who fled Arl Eamon’s estate so long ago. Are you.”

Oh, no. I am newly remade now.” She smiled her feral smile. “Come, then. I shall endeavour to find something to eat before you resort to bracing my jaws open.”

***

“Lady Morrigan,” said Turin. “Are you well?”

“I am not yet an invalid,” she said in return. To Turin’s shock the lady was followed into the war room by Miss Cousland, with no claw marks on either of them. Truly, wonders never ended.

“I have taken the wisdom of the Well,” said Morrigan, “and it yields answers. Not always directly, but they are there. For one thing, I know now how to kill Corypheus.”

“Then tell us,” Turin said eagerly. Anything, anything that might do it without endangering Grey Wardens. Without endangering Miss Cousland. Without endangering anyone, he reminded himself firmly.

“The dragon he warped and bound to himself with red lyrium is the key to his essence. Kill the dragon, and the master, too, can die.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Oh,” said Captain Rutherford, “is that all?”

“The Inquisition has slain dragons before,” Lady Josephine said stoutly, “and will again. As many times as it takes.”

“Would that it were so simple,” said Sister Leliana. “We must be well prepared when he strikes again. That thing clearly has its own intelligence. And its own strength of will.”

Said Turin, “It has nothing that will save it.” And he hoped it was true.

***

“We still need more if we are to face Corypheus’s dragon,” said Lady Morrigan. “But I know where to look. We must summon Mythal.”

Miss Cousland looked like she was trying to decide which of several biting replies to make, but gripped her skirts and said nothing.

“The Elven goddess?” said Turin. “I know little of her. Is this something the voices told you?” 

“‘Tis indeed. Whatever Mythal was – goddess, myth, or ancient being – the voices of the Well say a part of her power lingers on. And that power is exactly what we need.”

“Intriguing,” said Lady Josephine. “This will rewrite history books if found.”

“And bring many people eager to copy the feat,” said Sister Leliana. “We must be careful.”

Lady Morrigan waved impatiently. “Yes, yes, we know all that. I know where to petition Mythal, and believe me, no one would stumble there on their own. Are we agreed, Inquisitor?”

Captain Rutherford nodded to Turin. Turin, necessarily, turned to Miss Cousland.

“She’s telling the truth, or part of it,” Miss Cousland grated. “We do need this. I shall come with you.”

“I shall endeavour to translate to a tongue you know how to speak,” Lady Morrigan said silkily.

And with that, they went.

It was a sunny glade, deep in the wilds between nowhere and nowhere. An ancient abstract statue stood bracketed by ancient trees. Turin felt like it was watching them. But by then it was too late to turn back.

Morrigan leaned in, studying the statue. “‘Tis all that remains of the great altar. ‘We few who travel far, call to me, and I shall come. Without mercy, without fear.’“

“‘Cry havoc in the moonlight,’” read Mr. Solas. “‘Let the fire of vengeance burn. The cause is clear.’ A very old invocation, perfectly translated.”

“Why, thank you.” Lady Morrigan smiled. “Now. This was where Mythal’s followers called to her and spoke in turn. Mr. Solas, the rest of you, must be elsewhere.”

“No,” said Miss Cousland.

“Mr. Trevelyan?” said Lady Morrigan.

“Please, Miss Cousland. Stay within shouting range if you wish. Let me do this one ritual alone.”

“If you were alone,” she said, “I would not be concerned.” But she backed away.

Turin remained. Lady Morrigan smiled and turned to the statue, issuing another invocation, “the last to drink of sorrows.”

And the sun shone, and the wind blew, and from a sudden puff of smoke in the grasses emerged something that hadn’t been there before. The apparition was a cross between an old woman and some majestic animal. Her white hair was fashioned into horns bound by red ribbon. She wore leather armour and an aura of power that nearly drew Turin to his knees.

Lady Morrigan was staring, open-mouthed. “Mother?”

“You know her?” said Turin.

“Now, isn’t this a surprise?” said the newcomer.

What followed was too swift for conversation; Lady Morrigan flung forth power to brush the newcomer away and the newcomer, in turn, burst back power that doused the glow of Morrigan’s hands.

“You are Mythal?” cried Morrigan. “I do not understand. How?”

“You may call me Flemeth,” said the Mythal-thing. “Once I was but a woman. Crying out in the lonely darkness for justice. And She came to me, a wisp of an ancient being, and She granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her. – You hear the voices of the Well, girl. What do they say?”

“They say you speak the truth,” said Lady Morrigan, in desperate tones. “But you are still a witch who prolongs her unnatural life by possessing the bodies of her daughters!”

“That’s what you believe, is it?”

“I found your grimoire, and I am no fool, old woman.” Turin privately noted a pattern to Lady Morrigan’s attitudes toward powerful women.

Flemeth chuckled. “Yet here you stand, bound into my service. – But you are not here for the call of family. You seek aid against the magister who grasps beyond his reach. I can help you fight Corypheus.”

Again, too quickly, Flemeth reached out; this time Morrigan did not stop her, and the glow between them was a gold that tugged at the heart. “Do you understand, child?” murmured Flemeth.

Lady Morrigan looked no different for the moment’s touch, except perhaps calmer. “I…think I do,” she said, blinking. “I can fight his dragon.”

“Then I am finished here. Remember, a soul is not forced upon the unwilling, Morrigan. You were never in danger from me.” And then, in another twist of smoke, Mythal who was Flemeth vanished.

“Lady Morrigan? She didn’t harm you?”

“No,” said Lady Morrigan, shaking her head, hard. “All the same, all things considered, I now wish you had drunk from the Well.”

They returned to Skyhold. Miss Cousland and Lady Morrigan attained an icy détente. And everyone, everyone waited.

***

Turin was exhausted. No time now for dances or pleasantries; he saw his allies at the war table and left only to eat and sleep. He could not be everywhere, seeing everywhere, as the Inquisition should do, as he had built it to do; he was one man, and one man increasingly alone amidst the frenzied but maddeningly aimless preparations.

The flash came from the south, spreading like a burst of thunder, matching Turin’s green mark and startling forth an agonizing series of sparks.

He looked around the table while clutching his own wrist to keep his raging hand still. “Corypheus’s move?”

“It’s to the south,” said Sister Leliana, running to the window. “He has returned to the Havenvale chapel, to the Breach.”

“What does he hope to do here?” said Captain Rutherford.

“Let’s not give him time to answer that,” said Turin.

He passed Miss Cousland in the hall. “Did you see that?” he said.

She rushed to walk beside him. “Yes. It’s him, isn’t it.”

“Yes. I’m going to face him.”

“Mr. Trevelyan…”

“What is it?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You would do better to guard Skyhold.” He didn’t want her with him. He didn’t want her anywhere near a thing that could claim the body of a Blighted person whenever it was supposed to die. The Blight he could not banish from her, but he could see that it did not bring her to grief to-day.

“With respect, no. If nothing else you need someone to help Lady Morrigan with the dragon while you deal with Corypheus himself.”

“If I should fail, if I should strike too soon or too late, you will die. I won’t even have…I…Miss Cousland, you must not be near Corypheus when I fight him.”

“So fight him. Leave the dragon to me.”

“This isn’t a game of overmatching courtesies!”

“It isn’t a game! I know that! I knew that when you were a child in arms!”

“When did it first enter your head that you have to die to see the rest of us safe? And how do I dissuade you?” 

“We don’t have time for this, Inquisitor!”

“No! There is no more time!” He paused and licked his lips. Around him their advisors stood in stunned silence. “Miss Cousland. Please. I implore you. If ever I had the slightest influence with you, if ever I earned the slightest regard, if any last fibre of your being is tied in any way to not only myself but to everything I have come to stand for…I beg you. Stay and protect our people.”

“If ever I had the slightest influence with you,” she echoed. “If ever you believed me a worthy advisor, if ever you respected me, do not ask…ah. But it is in your nature to ask the impossible. You could not be the man you are otherwise.” Her hands flexed and tightened while her head bowed. In time she spoke, hollowly. “I shall not hinder you further.”

It was all the approval Turin needed to act. And act he did.


	44. Inquisitor Answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mr. Trevelyan faces Corypheus, Miss Cousland defies orders (But the risk…!?), and Mr. Trevelyan and Miss Cousland seek an understanding.

Bracketed by Master Tethras and Lord Pavus, Turin brought the fight to Corypheus. Here above the forest Corypheus raised the ruins of the chapel; they floated between Breach and ground as though this were a warped version of the Fade. No doubt if Corypheus had his way it would be.

Turin brought enough shot to take down ten dozen men, and directed it Corypheus’s way. Just for the greatest margin of safety for Miss Cousland, he could not kill him, not until the dragon was dead. But he could weaken, and fully intended to. When Corypheus sent his musket spinning away he drew his sabre and acted on every lesson he had ever known.

Back to the beginning. Back to his first attempt to establish himself as a new man. Back to the mark sparking and snapping on his aching hand, and back to the lives of the men and women who had helped him make sense of it. The shifting of the floating ruins did not disturb his aim, nor the sickening green light cloud his eye. His mark flared and flashed but could not threaten the steadiness of his hand. He was where he needed to be.

***

Fionne rode like the storm. The party had vanished ahead, but the fight would last long enough for her to join. And she had a dragon to kill.

She urged her horse further when she saw the stone wreckage rising from the snow. Corypheus or something equally malevolent was raising the ruins of the chapel and its environs. And, shooting in wide circles around it, a great black dragon and a smaller, more elegant purple one…the shapeshifted Lady Morrigan, she realized. Where she had developed this power Fionne didn’t have time to worry. It was saving all their lives now.

She sprinted up a wavering ramp and readied a shot at the black dragon. Corypheus was nowhere in sight. Wherever he was, Mr. Trevelyan would be, daring a holding action against the ancient magister. Should Corypheus die before the dragon did, his resurrection might use Fionne up. But she had a fighting chance.

She fired and fired again. Morrigan was doing her best to keep the corrupted dragon up against one floating wall but it was necessarily a dynamic fight. The poison Vivienne had provided for Fionne’s shot might have some effect but it wouldn’t be immediate.

The black dragon shook itself in a titanic wave of violence. Fionne loaded. Lady Morrigan fell to the snow, pursued closely to a shuddering rest. The great dragon raised its claw. Fionne aimed, fired.

She hit the monster’s eye.

The beast roared and threw its head back, slamming into a stone wall. It crumpled beside Lady Morrigan, who in turn shook herself and dragged her bulk over the dragon’s. She savaged it until it stopped moving. Fionne watched in helpless fascination for just a few moments before she had to avert her eyes from the gore.

“Mr. Trevelyan,” shouted Fionne, though she wasn’t sure whether he could hear in this floating maze. “Now.”

And Mr. Trevelyan, with whatever other allies had made it that far, acted.

***

Corypheus was dead. The dragon was slain. The sky was healed. The populace rejoiced, and the Inquisition was welcome everywhere.

Fionne’s thoughts were of the future, and they troubled her.

To get away from the noise Fionne went to the little copse behind the stables. The trees there were green and thriving. It was soothing in a way that the celebrations could not be. She walked slowly amidst the greenery, enjoying the smell of life and the feeling of wholeness unstressed by combat’s demands. She tried not to think of her last moments with Mr. Trevelyan. She could not show partiality to him. The only constant in their association had been the impossibility of attachment. Even though, in retrospect, she wanted it. How bitter was hindsight! And how many near misses she had wasted on the way, all out of fruitless self-pity!

She rounded a corner and beheld something that struck dread into her very heart. Mr. Trevelyan was walking toward her – walking? No, bearing down on her.

She sped up. He fell in beside her. His presence was tall and strong and full of some suppressed vitality.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You didn’t, Miss Cousland. I…”

“I was just going back to Skyhold,” she said quickly.

“May I accompany you?”

“I know the way.”

“Then may I speak with you?”

Her stomach churned. Were it anyone else she would simply chastise him for his boorish manner and turn away. Yet she could not dismiss this, the most anguished of her connexions. The thought of wronging him again was intolerable. She must play the bland cordiality of their painful relations, though she did not understand why she was so trapped by them. “What about?”

“A matter that has weighed on my mind for months. I hope you will not find this too precipitate – but if you do, you need only command my silence.”

“Is this about Corypheus?”

“No.”

She longed for the bushes to spring up and conceal her. They didn’t. “I can’t command you silent until I know what you would say.”

Was that hope springing to gleam in his eyes? She couldn’t tell anymore. She couldn’t tell anything about him. Her perplexity was matched only by her embarrassment. Helpless to stop or redirect him, she came to a halt and waited.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Cousland, I was wrong. And I hope you will accept my apology.”

Of all things he might possibly have said, that was perhaps the most bewildering. “For what?”

“For my prejudice against you as a Warden and a person. For my stubbornness. For my inability to give you the regard you have so decisively earned. I dismissed your pain as though it were self-involvement. I took you for granted, and in my arrogance I took your affections for granted, too, even though I had done nothing to deserve them. Believe me when I say that my association with you has at long last overcome the selfishness with which I first beheld you. Miss Cousland, you are a lady and a warrior, compassionate and fair, unbowed by tragedy and unbroken by adversity.

“I admire you without hope of reciprocation, given our previous dealings, and blame only myself for that insuperable divide. If it be your desire to do nothing together but cleanse the world of demons, then so be it. But when I say that my feelings for you have only deepened and become more genuine, I say so in the remote hope that perhaps yours have as well.”

Fionne’s heart swelled. She felt herself blushing, wildly, and had no means to hide it. The violence of his sentiment could admit only one answer. “Mr. Trevelyan, I know you must know that in your previous declaration of feeling I was repulsed. This was not wholly due to an absence of virtue in you, but rather to an absence of feeling in me. I did not see you with any manner of affection because I did not want to. Perhaps, had we not been thrown together in this ordeal for so long, I never would have.”

“Go on,” he said raptly.

All the things she had longed to say and couldn’t now crowded to the fore. “Things have changed. I, have changed. My pride is…not what it was. Your courage, your self-sacrifice, your good manners and your unerring skill, all these qualities speak in your favour. More than that, when I’m with you…we are not just demon slayers, you and I. You make me remember that I am a lady. I had resigned myself to leave that scar alone, for years. You reminded me there is life beneath. My heart lifts when I see you because I know I’m going to be a better person with you at my side.” She stopped, unable to go further, hoping that he would.

“Once before,” he said slowly, “I asked you a vital question. You rejected me, as well you should have. Would it be too great an imposition for me to ask once more?”

“Mr. Trevelyan. Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Would you believe me if I went to one knee?” He did, with half a tremulous smile, and extended his unmarked hand. “Marry me, Miss Cousland, and I shall personally see that you are the happiest woman in Thedas.”

“Oh, Mr. Trevelyan.” She clasped his feverish hand while her heart fluttered a wild beat. “I believe I already am.”


	45. Epilogue: The Inquisition at Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which each contributes to the general peace. Except Solas.

Turin looked up from his desk when he heard the shouting. He moved quickly to the window to see the cause of the ruckus.

What he found was a bright confection of a carriage with someone hanging out the window – a someone Turin quickly recognized as Mr. Hawke, returned from his search for his sister. Turin set aside his pen and leaped down the stairs two at a time.

Others were gathered in the courtyard now. Mr. Hawke gave a pretty brunette a hand down from the carriage. Miss Cousland of all people was the first to greet them.

“Mr. Hawke,” she said. “A pleasure. And…your sister?”

“Miss Bethany Hawke,” supplied Hr. Hawke.

“A Grey Warden, by reputation?” said Miss Cousland. She extended a long pale hand to clasp Miss Hawke’s. “Welcome, sister,” she said, quietly but warmly.

“Miss Cousland?” she said in a gentle flute of a voice. “The Hero herself. They said you were here. I wasn’t sure I believed them.”

“In the flesh, and none other. Come. You must meet everyone. – Lady Josephine!”

Lady Josephine had stopped on the stone stairs to the front door. Her hand was laid on her breast, and she was staring at Mr. Hawke as though all the good things of the world had just come rolling in. “Mr. Hawke,” she said, with admirable composure.

Hawke all but ran with Miss Hawke’s arm through his. “Lady Josephine, my sister Bethany. Bethany, this is Lady Josephine Montilyet.”

“He’s told me so much about you,” said Miss Hawke. “Truly, I’m glad to meet you.”

Master Tethras appeared from nowhere, walking for once without his Bianca. “Hawke! Sunshine! I tried to keep them from giving your rooms away but they overruled me. It’s all servants’ quarters now.”

“Then I’m just going to have to claim a space for Bethany,” said Mr. Hawke. “How does the Inquisitor’s room sound, after a slight redecorating? It should be comfortable enough.”

Turin drew nearer. “I think we can do better than that, but thank you for trying to sell my room out from under me.”

“Lord Inquisitor,” said the newcomer, wide-eyed, and curtseyed. “I’m honored.”

“You’re welcome here,” he said in return. “Glad I am that Mr. Hawke’s search was not in vain.” After all, with a young lady to take care of and another young lady here at home Mr. Hawke’s flirtatious habits might calm down a little. Or so Turin could hope.

The others crowded around now. Lord Pavus and Iron Bull seemed as cheerful as if they had reached an understanding. Mr. Hawke allowed Lady Josephine on one arm and Miss Hawke on the other. Just then Lady Cassandra and Captain Rutherford emerged from the smithy, walking closely enough as to seem on the edge of entanglement with every step. The colour was high in their cheeks and they were smiling.

Captain Rutherford stopped. “Mr. Hawke! You found her!” The Captain bowed and the lady dipped a curtsey while Mr. Hawke made introductions.

Cole hung back, pale-faced but smiling. “Everyone’s happy,” he said. “What do I do then?”

“Celebrate with us,” said Master Varric, clapping the slim spirit’s back and drawing him into the group.

“What’s odd,” said Warden Blackwall, edging close and giving a bow, “is that Mr. Solas is still missing.”

“I know he survived the battle,” said Miss Cousland. “I saw him. He only had a few cryptic words. I didn’t realize they were final.”

Iron Bull looked over. “For that matter, where’s Lady Morrigan?”

“Packing her things,” said Miss Sera. “Thought she’d get out without anyone noticing, I bet.”

“I don’t suppose you managed to sneak any toads into her things in the process,” muttered Miss Cousland.

“But she is leaving, as I understand it,” said Turin. “She has recovered sufficiently from the wounds she took in battle. As Miss Cousland predicted, she is on her way out – whither I don’t know.”

“We can find out,” said Sister Leliana, emerging from a side door. “Though what good it will do us is anyone’s guess.” She pressed on to be introduced to the Inquisition’s newest guest.

“Oh, Inquisitor,” said Lord Pavus, “when will we be fêting Miss Hawke’s arrival?”

“You can’t be ready for another feast of that size so soon,” said Madame Vivienne.

“That sounds like a challenge,” said Turin. “Watch me.”

He started for the door to the castle proper. Miss Cousland – his Miss Cousland – was ahead of him in the way. Turin followed her just to a turn in the stairs. He snatched her hand and half spun her to face him. “Marry me,” he said in a voice pitched for two, for the seventh time that day. His smile felt like a second sun.

“I shall,” she said, laughing, and he let her go.


End file.
